


Ophelia

by areyoureddiekids



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artist Reader, Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Eye Gouging, F/M, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Making Out, Mild Smut, Multi, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft Holmes is not good with feelings pass it on, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft's Meddling, Opposites Attract, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Mycroft, Pride and Prejudice References, Reader GETS our boy MH and appreciates his meddling, Resolved Romantic Tension, Serial Killer, Set after Season 2, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vaginal Fingering, caring is a disadvantage my arse, cleaner reader, like a couple of teens, mentions of rape victims, mentions of suicide through sherlock, reader has a stalker uh oh, slight roommate trope I guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 83,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoureddiekids/pseuds/areyoureddiekids
Summary: Ophelia Carter is both an aspiring artist (ignoring the fact that most of her commissions are to paint overweight pets) and a cleaner for the rich and the powerful. It is through this that she meets one Mycroft Holmes, who has a ‘minor role in the British Government’, of which Ophelia thinks is bullshit. The thing is, Ophelia kind of gets the impression that beyond the icy exterior, he is only slightly possessive, rude and terrifying.Also, she has a sneaking suspicion that she should not find him amusing as she does. People are starting to think she’s mad.A trail of murders from the last two years lead, eventually, to Ophelia, and thank God for the fact she cleans Mister British Government's house, otherwise she would be so screwed.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Original Character, Mycroft Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes/Reader
Comments: 241
Kudos: 488





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know that Mycroft supposedly lives less central, but for the purpose of this story he lives in Kensington. There might be a few little changes like this, but as this is a self-indulgent story for fun, who cares! 
> 
> I have around fourteen chapters ready so far, so I'm going to be editing those and posting whenever I can, as well as writing new ones. I'm doing an MA, so be patient! Enjoy!
> 
> Follow my Tumblr: mycrosoftholmes :)

You were not what I was expecting.

I’d learnt not to expect much with my job. Working within a ‘prestigious’ cleaning company came with heaps of boring people, who had boring houses and boring things to say. An average of the customers who used _Maid to Clean, Cleaning Ltd_ were often middle-aged couples with bags of money, and empty rooms in their London townhouses that gathered dust.

They were either executives, high-up managers, or worked in the Financial District in some other money-making career.

That day, a Tuesday, _you_ threw me off entirely.

You were a long-time customer of _Maid to Clean._ I had been told that much. With that, came the knowledge of gossiping cleaners within the company. According to Kelley, the woman who cleaned your house before me (though, you probably wiped her name from your mind, didn’t you? She wasn’t important. Why bother remembering the name of a _Goldfish_?), your house was _fancy as fuck._ Her words, not mine.

Though, your house _is_ fancy as fuck.

I arrived that morning to your Kensington _manor_ house, not particularly thrown by the grandness of the outside. I had inputted the code given to me by _Maid to Clean_ into your front gate, used to doing this to most places I cleaned throughout the week. I suppose the only different being, was that your gate was so thick and so tall that I half-wondered if I was entering a prison.

The code was _1852_. The date in which Samuel Fox invented the umbrella, you would later tell me.

You weirdo.

I walked over the gravel in my slightly worn black shoes and my work clothes, feeling frumpy amongst your trimmed bushes and fresh brick walls. It’s funny, how quickly one can become used to feeling like a pebble amongst rubies. My job humbled me.

I had stalled to a pause for a moment, blinking at the ornate door (dark wood, extravagant engravings) before spotting a small black box to the right of the door. Upon flipping that up, I had found a pad that mimicked the one from the front gate and then had entered the same code of your apparent _hero_.

You weren’t meant to be home. You already know that, though. I’m sure you remember my momentarily thrown look upon seeing you. I knew only your name, your house number, and the rooms you wanted cleaning (a strict schedule, I remember thinking). And, of course, the fact that you were a _red client._

Red clients were the high ups; the kind that you didn’t mention outside of work. It was commonplace to even look up and down the road before entering the home of a _red client,_ just to be extra inconspicuous.

And yet, there you were. Standing on the other side of the door as if to open it, briefcase in hand, three-piece suit most likely more expensive that anything I would ever dream to own, and cool blue eyes narrowing at me.

Do you remember the first words you ever said to me? You probably do, but not from sentiment. You’re just annoyingly fucking perceptive, aren’t you? You probably remember how many times I _blinked_ upon our first meeting in that entryway.

You said, an air of offence around you, ‘Ah. The _cleaner’_. Queue the judging gaze running up and down my _Maid to Clean_ uniform. You made me feel like a fucking plebeian within the first few seconds of meeting you. There I stood, empty handed and dressed in something you wouldn’t even _exercise_ in, blinking at you like a fucking idiot.

I was about to open my mouth and reply, to introduce myself properly, but you beat me to it. ‘Alas, _not_ the one who has been in my employment for the last three and a half years. Please, do not bother with introductions, Miss. I know that you are Ophelia Carter. Twenty-six-year-old. You have been employed by _Maid to Clean_ for the last… _three years_ ’. You had smiled in that unpleasant, smarmy way of yours. You bestowed me with another withering look.

I was not nearly enough awake for your dramatics, by the way. Hell, you had probably _deduced_ then and there that I had taken the tube to yours, that I had scarcely got any sleep the night before, and that I had nearly missed the High Street Kensington tube stop from dozing off. ‘Yes, Mister Holmes,’ I had forced out, already gathering that you were going to take up the percentage of the people I cleaned for of whom I labelled _Rich Assholes with No Manners._ ‘I’m sure you’ll _already know_ that Kelley has taken a very early maternity leave. She’s, er, she’s having _triplets_ and can’t be bending over to hoover too much’. There was a bite to my tone, and I remember hoping that you wouldn’t catch on. Instead, you grimaced at the statement, and I might have smiled at that had you not annoyed me so much already. ‘I’ve been allocated me to you for the foreseeable future’. With that, I had managed a smile that I am sure anyone could decipher was not in the slightest bit genuine.

You had stared for a mere moment, before straightening up and replying briskly with, ‘Indeed’. You moved toward the door, blue eyes scanning me once more, before nodding. ‘You have received five-star ratings from each of the five houses you clean weekly. I expect only the best service within my home, Miss Carter’.

 _Asshole._ That’s the only thought that has whizzed through my head as I had nodded at you, smile tight and fists clenched. ‘Of course, sir. My employers have debriefed me exactly on what was expected of Kelley, and therefore me’. I always spoke like a robot when I was working. Outside of work, you would come to know, I was far more relaxed. 

‘Good’. You didn’t say goodbye. You walked forward, allowing me to step aside, and left with a nod my way and a flick of your wrist as you shut the front door behind you. Had I known who you were, and how high up in the government you were, I might have wondered why you would leave a stranger in your home.

I would later learn that my name and age and my employment length were not something given to you by _Maid to Clean,_ but were titbits of information you had gathered from the file you had on me. You were allowing me into your home once a week. How could you, _Mycroft bloody Holmes_ , not ensure that I wasn’t a raving lunatic, or some undercover spy?

Because, that’s the kind of things you had to worry about. I would, _soon_ , learn that.

-

Your house was beautiful.

That had been my first thought upon shaking myself of the nerves of a new client, one who would undoubtedly look down their nose at the _cleaner_. I was, sadly, used to it. Your kind can’t help being snobs.

Your home was all dark wood and dark furniture, the floors scratch free, and I could understand why you were one of the few homes at _Maid to Clean_ who insisted on the cleaner using the cleaning supplies you already had. A home like that, with old and sensitive wood, would need specific cleaning products.

The email sent to me by Andrew, one of the higher ups in the company, was very specific. _Mister Holmes is not the type to let mistakes go. Nearly made Kelley have a mental breakdown when she first started. You’ll hardly see him, though. He leaves for work early. Lastly, cleaning supplies in the third cupboard along in the kitchen! Good luck, Phee!_ That had been the closing message of Andrew’s email on the do’s and don’ts of your home (a four-page email, might I add, you utter nutter). I had recited every sentence and step, I’m sure more so than I did with my exams in my Undergraduate or Postgraduate degrees. My job, for a cleaning job, paid well enough that I could pay for a one-bedroom studio on Clapham Highstreet, buy art supplies, and live off a healthy diet of yellow label veg and frozen pizzas. 

We led very different lives, didn’t we?

I cleaned quickly, knowing that if I finished early enough, I would be able to go home, run to the post-office, and post the commission someone had requested over my Instagram page, _@OpheliaPaints_.

Creative, I _know_.

What’s worse, the commission was a rather dramatic painting of someone’s overweight tabby cat. As fond of a good old cat as I am, my dream of being able to live off my art didn’t start with painting other people’s _pets_.

Speaking of art, the first time I saw yours I was sorely tempted to steal it all and change my name. I mean, not seriously, but _half seriously._ The ones on your upstairs landing, that overlooked your foyer, had me burning with jealousy. I can’t imagine how much they cost, or who you had outbid to buy them, but they were _beautiful_. Not my kind of art, mind, but beautiful all the same.

Houses say a lot about people. As I dusted your art, staying clear from the bedroom, the Office, and any guest bedrooms (I was told they would be locked, anyway), I found there was nothing very personal about your house. I thought little of it, at the time. At that point, I barely even remembered your first name. You were Mister Holmes, one of our richer customers, who liked old, fine art and didn’t really leave touches of himself over his own house. Single, from the lack of any other personality around the house, with no pets. OCD, maybe.

Your kitchen, as I wiped the sides, showed no inkling of creative ability in the cooking department. No spices took up the transparent spice cabinet. There were no dishes in the sink, nor an overabundance of mugs or glasses in the cupboard. Enough for one person. Just you. I snooped a little, I will admit, in that respect. You can’t really be angry at that, considering you knew more about me than my bloody parents did the moment we met.

After the dusting and wiping, there came the hoovering and mopping. Your house wasn’t in desperate need of a deep clean, but I did it anyway. First impressions, and all. Your sitting room had a lush carpet that I hoovered carefully, making sure to not leave marks where the fibres faced the wrong way. I stopped, once, to spy out the weathered books on your ornate bookcase, before carrying on. I had already been in your home for two and a half hours.

It's funny. Holmes wasn’t a common name at all, but I hadn’t even slightly put two and two together and figured out that you were related to Sherlock Holmes. The Detective who had, at the time, been _dead_ for four months. Another fact that you would rectify.

I finished your house without a second thought of you. It was easy to become so accustomed to entering homes like yours and distancing myself from thinking too much about the riches and the person behind the lavish life.

I suppose that’s how you thought of me. It must have been easy for you, Mycroft Holmes, to think so little of the woman who cleaned your home.

Maybe we were as bad as each other, in that respect.

-

My life consisted of painting, working, and ensuring that my mother knew that, no, I have not died. _I just didn’t answer my phone, mum, because I was in the shower._

That evening, a Tuesday evening, was the same as any other. I climbed the four flights of stairs to my flat, dumped my phone and keys onto the coffee table, told my Alexa Dot to play some soft piano music from a hastily thrown together Spotify playlist, and began shedding myself of the _Maid to Clean_ uniform. My flat was likely one of your least favourite places, something of which usually make me pleased rather than annoyed. I liked you hated it. I liked when you got uncomfortable.

I had draped every surface with a cloth of some sort, hating the scratched furniture that had come with the flat. My easel sat in the corner, beside a rickety table that held my oil paints and brushes. The kitchen was small and square, with a kettle and a toaster and a small fridge and freezer. Behind my sofa, there was a brightly coloured tapestry of which you would one day wrinkle your nose at. My bedroom was much the same, decorated with fairy lights, a battered laptop, and patterned bedsheets. Home was, to me, a solace. A cosy place with soft lighting and every surface decorated with pictures and fake flowers and paintings that I deemed good enough for me, but not for customers.

I suppose you might think my life sounded quite empty before the whirlwind that was you and your Government led, Sherlock-centric life inhabited it. You would be right. We were both lonely, in our own ways.

I read poetry that you would call simple, I watched TV’s shows that you would turn your nose up to, and I listened to a variation of music, from rock to classical, that you would only half agree to liking. The only thing we could agree on when it came to what we liked, was art. It was the first time I think you saw that though I was never, not even slightly, going to be close to your intellect, you understood I was not a moron.

-

On Wednesday, I cleaned the house of Mister and Mrs DeLang. She worked in the Houses of Parliament, and he was a Book Editor. Their house was different to yours in many ways, if you want some gossip. There was always a new red wine stain in the living room that I would have to get rid of. From what I had gathered from cleaning for them for a year, Mrs DeLang drank too much, and Mister DeLang was having an affair. Well, _multiple_.

I can hardly imagine Mrs DeLang wearing a bright pink bra, so I can’t imagine the one I found in the clothes hamper was hers. That, and once, when Mrs DeLang was away in the South of France, two glasses had been left on the counter. One had a lipstick stain on the rim. It didn’t surprise me too much, really. One of the other girls who cleaned the DeLang’s before me did warn how Mister DeLang’s gaze…lingered.

My job involved secrets. I never thought on that much before, how in depth I saw into the lives of London’s (Britain’s, really) Elite. I washed the clothes and scrubbed the homes of Lord’s, Lady’s, MP’s, and _you_.

It’s likely why you did what you did next.

You had to be sure.


	2. Chapter 2

On Monday’s, I cleaned two houses, the Grant’s, a heterosexual married couple, and the Patel-Martin’s, a homosexual married couple. Tuesday’s were solely for you. I think _Maid to Clean_ did this on purpose, because you were likely the most prestigious of our customers. Wednesday’s were for the DeLang’s. You’ll remember Mister DeLang?

I always will.

Thursday’s, I cleaned a house, funnily enough, just down the road from where you lived. Other Government workers named the West’s. Friday’s, I cleaned for the Donoghue’s, the only couple who had children, a five-year-old and a sixteen-year-old. Later that day, I finished with an apartment on the other side of Kensington Garden’s. For the weekends, I would be free. Free to paint. To update my Instagram. To ensure the few commissions I was asked to do via my social media were running smoothly. Free to go out every other rare, _rare_ weekend. Free to paint until my hands cramped and I wondered if I was wasting my time on such an out of reach ambition.

It was a Friday when it happened. I was walking past a park, denim jacket pulled tight around me, and music blaring through my earphones. It was usually this time I would call either my mum or my dad, but I was too tired to do so. Sometimes, I relied on the walk after work to calm me down after a day of cleaning other people’s homes.

The car was dark and sleek as it pulled up next to me, but the hands were rough and hard. Uncaring in a way I was not used to. They grabbed me, startling me from my yawning trance as I walked briskly along and listened to my music. The earphones were ripped out and my yell was silenced, and I was thrown unceremoniously into the back of a car.

It took me longer than I would have liked to really understand what the fuck had just happened.

The car was expensive and smelt like leather, and the woman next to me was pretty, dark haired, and dressed like she meant business. I stared at her for a good few moments, noting that the car had revved into action, and that there was a dark separator making it so I could not see the driver, before snapping, ‘Can I _help_ you?’ I was already scrambling with my phone and realizing that whoever had shoved me into the car was much bigger than the woman next to me, and therefore must be driving.

_Open the door? Roll onto the curb? Windows look blacked from the outside, from what I saw. Could kick up such a fuss that kidnapping you would be a waste of time. Check what she wants. Hasn’t done anything to hurt you yet._

The woman smiled, red lipstick glinting and watched as I fingered the latch of the door, before frowning back over to her when the door remained locked. ‘Hello,’ she greeted, in a tight Queen Elizabeth accent. ‘ _Ophelia_ , is it?’

I stared at her, brow furrowed and mouth slightly agape. ‘…Yeah. _You_ are?’

The shock was fading and the surrealism of it all was settling in. I had been kidnapped. _Kid-napped._ That was bad, right? Why was I so terribly calm if this was bad? The woman smiled. ‘Not important. Now, how would you like to make £10,000, Miss Carter?’

You’ll think I’m so simple for what I am about to say, but for a split second in the back of that car, I was convinced I was on a reality television show. It’s not like I watch Live TV, or even know what’s popular with that kind of crap anymore. I much preferred the cheaper options of illegally streaming things onto my laptop and plugging it into my TV.

Thing is, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen every kind of thriller or horror film that starts like this. You don’t agree to something that sounds that good, without knowing first if you must kill your mother or father or a fucking puppy to get it. So, as you’ll know, I replied, ‘I think I would be stupid to say I _wouldn’t_ like that, but I’d also be pretty stupid if I said _yes_ without knowing how I’d be getting this money, first’.

Had my voice been shaking? I do wonder that. I had been utterly bricking it, worried that my face was being broadcast nationally on some afternoon talk show. That, or I had been kidnapped by the London Mafia. And then, in my semi-panicked mind: _Does London have a Mafia?_

The woman smiled. The woman I know now to be Anthea, of course. There had been a glint in her eye and a careless smile on her face, as if this whole thing was rather boring to her. ‘The passcode to Mycroft’s Holmes, well, _home’_.

The number’s flashed in front of my mind. _1852_. I thought, then, that a situation such as this was the kind of thing we should be trained for in my job. As stated before, I cleaned for some _important_ people. Andrew told me once that the Prime Minister required our services for a short time.

I had not paused to think. I shook my head, thought of my mother, my father, the state my life would be in if I lost my job and made an enemy with someone working in the Government (although, you _were_ rude to me) and replied, ‘…No, I don’t think so. Thanks, though’.

There was a pause, in which Anthea stared at me, assessing my blank expression, before she nodded, shrugged, leaned back in the leather seat, and held a phone out in front of her. Soon, the only sound in the moving car was the sound of her tapping away at her _Blackberry_. I gaped at her.

The partition opened, then.

And _there you were._

You had that smarmy smile on your aging face, blue eyes wrinkled somewhat with the force of the phony smirk. You hadn’t had to tell me before I had figured it out, as obvious as it was. _A bloody test._ Of course, now I know you, it seems not surprising at all that this is something you would do. You let so few people close to you, physically or mentally. You needed to know that you could trust the woman you were allowing to clean your house once a week.

‘Oh my _God_ ,’ I had blurted out, staring at you. ‘ _Really_ , sir?’ My voice took on a tone of rude incredulity I _never_ used with clients but, I mean, what the fuck, Mycroft? Your paranoia knows _no_ bounds.

You had continued to look over you shoulder at me, head tilted. ‘Yes, well, one cannot be too careful with who they are letting into their home,’ you had drawled, all lilting accent. I had scowled at you. ‘You know, before hiring the girl before you, the one having the… _litter_ , two others lost their jobs because they took the bribes. Be that a warning, Miss Carter’.

I couldn’t help but snort in surprise at that. ‘So, there _is_ method behind this madness, huh?’ I bit out, somewhat worried for the sanity of you. And, also, for my own sanity. Now that the fear had gone, I had the lengths you would gone to, to be…amusing.

You had cocked a brow, assessing me with that scrutinising gaze. ‘You’ll find, Miss Carter, that despite my extensive background check on yourself, I cannot fully trust your _character_. Now, I know. I presume I will not have to go through the _bore_ of changing my security measures once again’.

‘No,’ I murmured, edging a look to the distracted woman next to me. ‘I suppose not, Mister Holmes. Was throwing me into your car really necessary, though?’

You leered. ‘It created quite the reality to the lie, no?’

 _Mad_ , I decided then. You were mad. My expression must have been one of incredulous bemusement ‘I…suppose so.

You nodded, sure of yourself, and turned to face the road in front of you. I spied out through the windscreen where we were and was almost delighted to see a familiar street. ‘My driver has taken the liberty of driving you to your home in Clapham, Miss Carter’.

‘…Thank you?’

‘Yes,’ you replied. ‘That does seem the correct reply, doesn’t it?’

I was almost embarrassed for the three people (?) in the car to see the overflowing bins outside of my apartment building but then I decided, fuck it, who were you to judge? You bid me farewell with something akin to disinterest, Anthea entirely ignored me, and I slammed the door to the black car and stumbled out of the road, to stand outside of my building.

You drove away.

I unlocked my door, stepped over the threshold, and laughed until I cried and, once I had calmed down, scoffed my way to my floor. I unlocked my door with a huff of disbelief and kicked aside the bouquet of cheap flowers that had appeared on my floor a week prior (most likely for one of my neighbours) and that no one had claimed.

I now realise that was the first time you made me laugh with your theatrics.

-

I _Googled_ you that night.

It was the first time I realised who you were related to, as I scanned the search results, whilst drinking green tea and painting a dark wood staircase that led to nothing. It reminded me of your home. There was nothing much about you on the internet, of course. I’m sure you saw to that. Only various pictures of you with the Prime Minister, articles stating ‘ _Mycroft Holmes, who holds a minor position in the British Government’_ and your relation to Sherlock Holmes. The late Sherlock Holmes.

Your life suddenly seemed to entirely entrancing.

The money, the house, the job – those things were _dull_. I was used to cleaning houses like that, for people like that. But you were not like usual people, were you? No, if your brother was anything to go by, then you were nothing short of extraordinary. A genius, a man of utter and absolute _power._ If you were anything like your brother, the falsely accused man who solved more crimes than the fucking police, then you were someone entirely _interesting_.

I like art, Mycroft. I paint. I see things. I pluck beauty from the worst parts of London, and I paint the mundane to make it wonderful. I paint the parts of people that I _see_. For my mother, I painted cotton, because that’s what I see when I look at her. For Caleb, smile, because I found it so enchanting.

One day, for you, I would paint a melting iceberg consumed by fire.

The thing is, having an eye for beautiful things that may not be seen as beautiful, and that comes with its advantages. I see things that are normal to be entirely but _. I saw you._

That’s the thing you have to know about me. One that now, you _do_ know.

Despite my mundane, my dull, my ordinary… I live for the _extraordinary_.


	3. Chapter 3

My Saturday’s were not normally so grand.

Caleb was one of my closest friends, one who had followed me from Suffolk to pursue is own dream of controlling other people’s parties and showing them how to have a good time. He was _minted_ , too. Very helpful having someone like that in the friend department, especially when you’re broke.

Especially when they can invite you to prestigious art shows in Spitalfields.

Caleb was gay, as well as very good looking and _very_ aware of it. Once, when we were teenagers, we had kissed clumsily and felt each other up, before deciding the entire ordeal felt very incestuous. So, we settled for not kissing and instead focused on friendship. The kind that shares memories dating back over a decade with someone who can read you like a book. Did you ever have any friends like that?

I doubt it. Maybe Sherlock, in some ways.

Caleb was dressed in a stylish suit, whereas I was wearing a dress I had bought from ASOS a year before. It was pretty, I’ll admit. Black and velvet and ending on my calves, but nothing compared to the silks and suedes of the people at that art show. My scratched gold jewellery said more about my status than anything else.

‘Maybe we can find you a sugar daddy,’ Caleb had suggested, as we handed our tickets to the man at the door. I had elbowed Caleb, whilst he had entirely ignored the scandalised look the ticket-guy had given us.

My skin itched with nerves as with walked from the cold London air, and into the warmth of the building. Like most buildings in London, the outside did not justice to the inside. Inside, it was all tall ceilings, chandeliers, and _very_ millennial music. I did not fit in there, and my entire lack of money and social standing became far more poignant at the conversations we walked swiftly past.

I was entranced the moment we stepped into the large, white room where the Art Show was being held. Never mind the bustle of socialites, I was more interested in the art. The priceless, wonderful art of people who were once like me, who had struggled to find their callings, their _muses_. It gave me hope, for one second, that maybe people would gawp at my paintints one day, and comment on my brush work, my ability capture peoples within paint, to-

And there you were.

Dressed in black opposed to grey I had seen you in twice. A tuxedo, like most of the attire at the event. You were standing next to a man and woman, the same forced smile you had thrown my way once before on your face. You really aren’t a good actor, you know. I honestly think you would do it on purpose; allow others to see how little you were enjoying yourself.

I felt a flutter of nervousness and ducked to the right with Caleb, nodding with him as he commented on the first painting we saw, which was valued at £7000. The worst thing? I could have painted it in my sleep. The next one was, admittedly, beautiful. I remember thinking the waves of the ocean looked real, like in that _Narnia_ book, _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_. The oil paint made the waves look as if they were coming off of the paper, rough and angry like the physical sea.

My musings were cut off rather abruptly by Caleb’s rough Suffolk accent. Far more pronounced than mine. Though, when I’d had a little too much to drink, as you know, it can emerge.

‘That one looks like _actual_ shit,’ Caleb had commented, sending me into a fit of giggles as I whacked his arm. ‘It _does_! What the fuck colours did the artist have to mix to create _that_?’ Undeniably, the murky grey/brown painting before us was not of my taste, mostly because it resembled, as Caleb had stated, _shit_.

I glanced over my shoulder a good fifteen times any time anyone in a black tuxedo walked past me which, given the event, was a lot. The room was set out in a maze of paintings, allowing people to weave through in a specific order. I couldn’t see you, and I half hoped that you had gone. It was why, when Caleb announced he should probably mingle for fifteen, I had been fine with wandering off by myself.

I doubted that anyone would talk to me. My dress screamed that I did not belong, that I was not here for the money, but for the art. That way, I was sure none of the artists would try and haggle me into buying their paintings.

You found me. I suppose you can’t help intimidating those you _know_ you will intimidate. I had been looking at my favourite painting of the night, a hyper-realistic one by a painter I was fond of, when you sidled up beside me.

‘Perhaps I should not be surprised to see you here, Miss Carter. You are a painter, are you not?’

Was it dread I felt upon hearing your voice, or nervousness? (Or, maybe, _excitement_?) The knowledge that you were cleverer than me in _every way_ hung heavy upon me after I finally figured out who you were, and how important you were. There was intimidating, and then there was _you_. I also did not miss the quick scan of my dress, and the quirk of a brow. Unimpressive as I probably _did_ look, I stood straighter under your judging gaze.

I had pushed my tenseness aside, tried to hide my alarm at seeing you, and offered a cocked brow and a tight smile. ‘Are you going to pretend you don’t know everything about me, Mister Holmes?’ It was unnerving to know this. How much did you background check cover, exactly? Did you know about the time I was taken home by the police when I was seven because I egged my least favourite teachers house? ‘Surely you don’t often go around kidnapping _strangers’_.

You had smiled, more grimaced, and looked me up and down. ‘No pretence of politeness, then, despite our employer and employee relationship?’ You quirked a smirk. ‘What a _relief_. I do tire of keeping up civility when conversing with-’ You cut yourself off, sharply and carefully, before tucking your hands behind your back and smiling thinly at me.

You amused me, more than anything. This dry, posh man who was surrounded by people you thought so much lesser than you. You had every knowledge that people thought you a tight arse, but you just didn’t _care_. How wonderful that must be. ‘The _riff raff_?’ I had supplied, biting back a dry smile. My voice took on a mock of your posh-boy lilt.

You watched me, apparently surprised, before replying, ‘I was going to say _normal people’._

 _That_ had surprised me. It wasn’t often you came across people proclaiming that they were something other than normal, when most people wanted to present themselves as such. I forced myself to remember to be polite; that your brother had committed suicide only four months ago. ‘You’re not normal, sir?’ My tone was plain.

‘I pride myself on such a fact’.

‘Ah,’ I shot back, and perhaps it was the expensive champagne, or the fact you were so utterly interesting. Perhaps, just a tiny bit, I might have been flirting. You did look handsome that night, and the realisation struck me with a dizzying thought. As Caleb so often told me, perhaps I really _did_ need to _get laid._ ‘You don’t mean _normal_. You mean _lesser’_.

I shouldn’t have been saying things like that to you. It was near insulting to assume you meant the worst. If Andrew could hear me, or that bitch Sheila who answered the phones at _Maid to Clean_ , I would be sacked. My employers were depressingly strict.

I looked at you, and you looked at me, and with a smirk, you said, ‘Again, Miss Carter, I pride myself on such a fact’. That had earned a laugh from me, more one of disbelief than anything. You straightened at the sound, eyelashes fluttering, and I cringed silently. I didn’t laugh like the others surrounding us. I might have even _snorted_ a little at the end. I did not fit in, and you saw that. Everyone saw it.

You sipped from your flute of drink, watching me. I had tried to ignore the thought that was flung to the front of my mind; one that involved your eyes and a mixture of grey and blue oil paints. ‘Why did you not take the bribe? I must admit I am curious’.

‘I didn’t want to lose my job,’ I admitted, turning back to the painting of a woman, her face dipped beneath oily looking water. ‘I didn’t want a reputation from a man such as…well, _yourself_. I may not be as intelligent as you, sir, but I’m not stupid. I know what men like you can do to those who screw them over. In my line of work, you learn your place rather quickly’.

I looked at you, once, then away again. The way you watched me did not hide your scrutinizing gaze. You made me nervous, I’m sure you could tell. My palms had been sweaty, and my mind whirring to keep up the confident façade. I’m sure you saw straight through it. ‘Not from compassion or loyalty, then?’

I couldn’t help the scoff that time. I threw you a look, one that I should not be throwing a client, and replied, ‘I’ll admit to compassion, partly. Loyalty? No. I barely _know_ you. Although, I’m a living cliché of a _struggling artist_. Do you know how embarrassing that is to tell people? My compassion isn’t a _good_ thing, it’s a bloody hinderance. I could be ten grand richer right now,’ I joked.

Straight away, I had the feeling I had said too much, and I am sure my expression showed it.

You blinked at me, slow and calculating. Then, you said, ‘I am surprise even myself by saying this, but it is not always terrible that too much… _compassion_ is a bad thing, Miss Carter. You are perhaps the first person tonight who has not inquired of my brothers motives for _offing himself._ Be that compassion or forgetfulness on your part, I am grateful’. You blinked, maybe surprised at your own words, before smiling tightly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to the _riff raff’_. I grinned, and you might have even given me a smile that was more smile than grimace, for once. ‘Before that, though, I have a question for you’. My heart had jumped, but I nodded. ‘Tell me what you think of this painting?’ You pointed to the one in front of us, of the woman peering through oily water, lips parted and eyes hazy.

Was it a test? I still don’t know. Perhaps you wanted to know how much I truly knew about the profession I claimed to be a _cliché_ for. Perhaps you wanted me to embarrass myself. ‘I-um’ I had cut myself off upon seeing the narrowing of your gaze, cleared my throat, and replied with a new kind of confidence. ‘I’m…familiar with her work. There’s always a kind of… a _beautiful_ sensuality to her paintings. Like this one, really’. I had swallowed, feeling surer of myself. Who were you to make me feel nervous about the one thing I could proclaim knowledge of, perhaps more-so than you? ‘Her subjects are often presented with barriers between themselves and the viewer and are rendered with vibrant colour. Do you see her…her lips – how red they are?’ I had blinked at the painting, my mind a little cloudy with drink. I felt a strand of hair fall loose from the twisted bun I had spent a good hour perfecting. ‘Everything about the painting draws you in, but then there’s that _one_ flicker of something _more_ …It’s beautiful, don’t you think, sir?’

A pause. ‘Indeed,’ you replied, and I looked back at you. You nodded to me, head tilting and glass raised. ‘Good evening, Miss Carter. I will admit that this conversation was not nearly as painful as I assumed it would be’.

I had laughed, bemused and astonished at your rudeness. ‘I’ll aim to take that as a compliment’.

The tight smile made its return. Maybe you hadn’t wanted to be known as a man who complimented anyone. ‘I will see you early Tuesday morning, then. It appears my leaving for office, and you arriving to clean, coincide’.

A thought struck me then, one that made me think back to Andrew’s email. _You’ll hardly see him, though. He leaves for work early._ I smiled, genuine. ‘Have a good evening, Mister Holmes’.

You looked at me for a few more seconds, before moving swiftly away after a terse nod.

Caleb, in all his subtle glory, joined me seconds later with a squeeze to my side and a, ‘Was that a potential sugar daddy, Phee? I _do_ like a ginger, me’.

‘ _Jesus_ , Caleb!’


	4. Chapter 4

I did see you Tuesday morning.

I arrived five minutes early, something of which I am mortified to know you most likely read into. Then again, I was polite enough to ignore the fact that, according to the roster of information Kelly had provided on you, you usually left for…whatever it is that you did far earlier.

My dark hair was pulled back tightly, as usual, and my make-up was minimal. It was part of _Maid to Clean_ to be presentable, no matter how sweaty or tired you would grow during work hours. All of the men and women I had met who worked the same job as me as the company were educated enough to have a passable conversation, pretty enough to be deemed average or above average looking, and had the manners most of our clients lacked.

I may be a cleaner, you see, but I cleaned for the _posh_.

The tube had been less busy that morning, mostly due to the fact that most schools were on their half-term. Such a thing meant a lack of screaming, exciting children pushing me against the windows. There was, though, the usual creepy guy that one would find on the London Underground. Always standing too close and staring too much.

I entered your house for the second time, slightly more confident than I had been the last time. I hadn’t received any negative comments from you at the art show, so I could only assume I hadn’t done a shitty job. My employers hadn’t said anything, either. I tucked my phone into my back pocket, along with my earphones, and started when I heard the sound of a ceramic mug hitting a countertop lightly.

I had caught you _much_ earlier than last week, then. For a moment, I hoped you wouldn’t be annoyed. It was better to learn, though, which clients didn’t mind _seeing_ you in their home. Only one house I cleaned preferred to keep my existence melted down to the fact their house appeared clean whenever they returned home. The others were rather polite. Some, such as Mister DeLang, perhaps too much.

You appeared in the entryway that led from your kitchen a lengthy hallway, just as I was closing the door behind me in the grand foyer. I smiled, and you tilted your head. You were wearing a different three-piece suit to last week, and I found myself appreciating how it looked on you.

Dangerous territory, I know.

You had straightened your back and relayed me with your usual look of quiet calculating, and I often wondered if you could do the same thing your brother had been renowned for. _The deduction thing_. Everyone knew about that, of course. The way in which Sherlock Holmes was near mythical in his ability to look at someone, living or dead, and read them like a very simple book. That blog of his always blabbed about it.

I wondered, then and there, if you _could_ read me, what would you see?

I barely had a moment to say hello, before you were telling me, nose wrinkled in distaste, ‘You smell of incense. It is nearly _stifling_ , Miss Carter’.

I had blinked in momentary surprise, before barking out a small laugh. You were hysterical half of the time; do you know that? You’re lucky I grew up around a family that had dry humour and the ability to take the piss out of ourselves with ease. You might have offended me into quitting more times than I can count, otherwise. ‘I’ll keep that in mind, sir, when I’m trying to cover the scent of oil paint in my flat’.

You had taken one step forward, nose wrinkled still. ‘You could not air it out, instead?’

I shook my head. We stood, both of us, below the running balcony of your foyer, above the paintings glared down at us. ‘Irrational fear of spiders crawling into my sheets, sir’.

You rolled your eyes, before flicking that cool gaze back over to me. ‘Could your partner not rid your flat of such… _things?’_ You were so calm and collected, weren’t you? Always slipping questions into conversations so you could find out what you wanted.

I had blinked at you, confused, before scoffing. ‘I thought you did an _extensive background check_ , sir? I’m guessing you mean Caleb. A friend. More interested in men than women, anyway’.

‘Ah’.

‘Ah,’ I mimicked, still smiling. ‘He works as a party planner. He’ll often invite me to art shows he thinks I’ll like that he’s helped organize’. I shut my mouth when I realise that you did not ask, and that I was likely boring you. ‘Anyway, sorry to keep you, sir-’

‘I assure you, Miss Carter, nothing can _keep me_ unless I allow it to’. You turned to grab an umbrella from the cupboard to your left, as well as the same briefcase I had seen you with before.

The words were tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them. ‘Couldn’t you have just deduced that he was a friend - and gay?’

You paused, half opening the door, and glanced to your left, at me. I stared, mouth suddenly dry and realising that my words linked far more to your dead brother than I had wanted. I hated myself then, you know. The thought that I had upset you somehow made me feel _ill._

Tight smile. Door opening. Ice cold gaze. ‘I have been known to misread such things, Miss Carter’.

You had closed the door before I could reply.

-

I thought about what you said as I cleaned.

You had suggested misinterpreting other relationships. Was this a nod to your lack of understanding of them? I could not imagine you to be the type to have ever been in a relationship, with a man or a woman.

The thought stalled me as I dusted the lamp outside of your bathroom.

For some reason, the idea of your not being attracted to women at all made me…troubled. Like a chance lost. Then again, it was entirely hard to imagine you, even when I hardly knew you, being romantic, or even sexual. Perhaps you were asexual. Perhaps you were straight, but just had no interested in pursuing romance, and therefore had little understanding of seeing it in others.

It was as these thoughts whirled around my head that I decided I sounded like a bloody idiot.

I’m sure you’ll agree.

-

_What is your opinion of the painting on my landing hallway? – MH_

MH? I thought of my friend Michelle, from Suffolk, but remembered her surname was Jones. A family member? No. Someone from work? No. A client-?

 _Yes_.

Mycroft. Holmes.

I stared at the words. I stared at them some more. I stared so long I forget that I had rice in my mouth, and nearly choked to death on said food. Three minutes later, after I was finished picking rice off of my bed, I stared down at the message and let out a strangled laugh.

You had messaged me.

You. Mycroft Holmes. Government Official. _You_ had somehow acquired my number and were now _texting me._

_Ignoring the obvious abuse of power to gain my phone number, personal opinion or professional opinion, sir? – Ophelia_

My stomach was tense with nerves as I spooned another mouthful of rice, of which I barely tasted. The true crime doc on my laptop screen faded into nothing as I glanced at my phone over the next thirty seconds. It dinged. I scrambled to get it.

_Both would suffice – MH_

I thought about how thorough he wanted me to be. When it came to art, I could go on and on. I could be a pretentious asshole, I knew, but I figured Mycroft Holmes, you, were the kind of person who wanted others to be thorough.

Deep breath, and-

_They’re lovely, sir. The first time I cleaned your home, I stood staring at them for a solid five minutes. I’m hoping that confession won’t get me fired, either. Personal opinion, they’re a specific kind of portrait that I stray away from, mostly because of the lack of character. As you probably know, 18 th C nobility and middle-class (etc) families in Britain wanted portraits of themselves and their families, and they were not too fond of smiling. It was about power and status and how a painting could portray that. Whilst they are beautiful, I prefer emotion in my paintings, be it in the subtlest of ways. Professional opinion, they’re priceless. Beautiful. Portraiture paintings are usually used to express an artist’s own concerns and interests about the human condition. The history of British portraiture has always been about the oh-so insatiable need to record status and achievement, and amongst the rest of the art you have collected, sir, they fit in well. Pardon my own deduction, but you seem the type to enjoy the wealth of Britain’s history. The fact the paintings use oil paint will always win me over also, sir – Ophelia_

I sent the message after a quick proofread, cautious to not send multiple ones, my cheeks hot and my stomach squirming. I knew this feeling. I wasn’t stupid. Nervousness at texting someone? A crush, of course. Silly and unimportant but annoying all the same. Exactly the kind of thing _you_ would notice.

_You have a preference for oil paints? – MH_

I almost rolled my eyes as I settled by quickly cooling dinner onto my bedsheets. No _thank you_ or mention of the fucking _essay_ I just sent you, of course.

_I prefer the depth of colour. Because it’s slow to dry, I can continue working the paint for much longer than other types of paint – Ophelia_

Fifteen seconds. My phone dings.

_I would request a painting, if such a thing is possible – MH_

I dropped my phone into the bowl of rice. Swearing and praying I did not send you a jumble of letters, I was breathless with nerves when I replied. My mind was whirling, and my cheeks were warm at the use of your language. It had not sounded like a request. Why had that excited me so much?

_I am very flattered, sir. I am also going to assume that in your snooping of my life, you’ve seen my work online, as well as the prices depending on canvas size. Is there anything specific you would like me to paint? – Ophelia_

Five seconds.

_Anything – MH_

-

Anything, I decide, is a fucking stupid word.

Anything means _a n y t h i n g._ I had never been given such a task by someone else. When I was commissioned, it with the knowledge that I would be following instructions. When I painted for myself, there was no worry of outside opinions. I could paint what I wanted. I could paint eyes I remembered from my morning commutes, I could paint parts of the houses I found beautiful, I could paint the way the sun looked once, when I was little.

I did not know what to paint for _you._

The responsibility you had given me was stifling. I was at an utter loss what you, the man who could afford anything, would want from an artist who existed only on social media. You had paintings that were hundreds of years old, that cost more than my entire flats rent for a whole year! Were you mocking me, somehow?

For the rest of that week, I left work, only to march back to my flat and stare at a blank canvas. I wrote notes, I thought of your home, I thought of the books on your bookcase. _Anything_ you might like to hang from one of your walls. But would this even be what you did, with whatever I created for you? Perhaps you wanted to just see what I could produce.

What would you, a man of impeccable taste, who can have anything, want?


	5. Chapter 5

‘You are struggling with the task I have given you’.

I had barely walked through your front door when your lilting, superior accent made me nearly jump out of my skin. I was three minutes late, and there you were, standing with your briefcase sat on the floor beside you, and your hand closed over the lapels of your suit. You were _there_ and I was _late_.

I wondered if you were like the lingering Mister DeLang but brushed the thought from my mind. I read people like him easily, and you… _you_ were far too _you_ to be so disrespectful and vulgar.

‘Jesus!’ I had gasped, hand flying to my chest.

‘No,’ you had drawled. ‘Just me’.

I glared at you, and it was then that I realised I was far more relaxed with you than I was other clients. Not _entirely_ , of course. Perhaps ten percent more relaxed than I should have been, but you allowed me to be. There was no obvious sternness when I slipped up, like at the Art Show. You allowed me to be honest with you, to curse lightly and to tease.

It seemed, more than anything, you were quietly forcing me to be more myself. ‘Very funny, sir,’ I grouched, tired. I shut your front door and pushed away the idea that you had been _waiting_ for me. ‘I’m _struggling_ , was it?’

You looked at me, mouth pressed tight and jaw working momentarily, before you had announced, ‘I am about to deduce you, Miss Carter’. You said it in such a way that suggested you knew I was aware of this talent, and that I had been quietly waiting, with bated breath, for you to propel me into your onslaught of truths and reads.

I know, now, how rare it was for a Holmes boy to announce such a thing as a warning before entirely shredding their prey apart. I know also know how _tame_ my first one had been. Had I known any of this, then, I would have known how entirely differently you treated me to others. Then again, I rarely saw you in occasions where others were present.

Cautiously, and with an air of excitement, I nodded. You had looked at me in a manner I was becoming used to, before the tirade of near insults and genuine musings fell from your mouth.

‘You haven’t showered this morning, as you usually do, which suggests you woke up later than your usual…6:00 AM alarm. You are nearly five minutes late, which suggests you were forced to get a later tube than routine demands. Your clothes, usually ironed efficiently to match with the standards of your employer, are wrinkled around the hem. This suggests you have been _fiddling_ with the hem – a product of anxiety, perhaps? Your right breast pocket has a small toothpaste stain on it. You appear fatigued, but that is an _easy_ one. Bags under your eyes, a paler complexion than typical, as well as the lack of cosmetics you usually adorn. That, and your slow reflexes due to exhaustion made it so you did not see me standing in this spot for a few seconds. You usually have traces of oil paint under your fingernails, but there are none today, which suggests you have not painted over the weekend as you usually do, nor yesterday. I can only assume this is because I requested a painting, one if which you have not begun. You are, therefore, struggling with the task’.

I gaped, ticking off each of your statements in my head. _Amazing_ , but I would not tell you such a thing. I had known that was what you were waiting for. The thing is, I don’t think you expected me to grin. You looked rather unnerved, if anything. ‘What are you doing?’ you inquired, slowly.

‘It’s called a smile, sir,’ I replied, with a small roll of my eyes. ‘People sometimes smile when they’re pleased, or happy, or in my case, _impressed_. I was hoping you would deduce me, one day. I have a feeling that was one of your _kinder_ deductions, though’.

‘I have been told that making others cry is frowned upon’. Another pause. ‘This is not the reaction I imagined receiving. You continue to…surprise’.

I frowned, mocking. ‘Surprise _you_ , sir? _Impossible’_.

‘Indeed’. You surveyed me, your prior words hanging between us. ‘If my commission was unwelcome, I will retract it-’

 _‘No!’_ You blinked and blushed, stumbling over my words. ‘I mean…I am _struggling_ with it, but…it’s quite nice to have a challenge again. I’ve become used to painting people’s animals. _Anything_ is just…a very broad request’. To assure you, I had added, ‘I am more worried of disappointing you, than being at a loss for what to do, sir’.

You watched, and I think you saw my truth. With a sharp incline, you responded. ‘There is no time limit, as it were. You are free to take as long as you wish, Miss Carter’.

I smiled at that. ‘That does make me feel better, thank you, sir’.

You inclined your head. ‘I must be going. I have…There is a cup of tea on the counter, in the kitchen. Milk, one sugar, I am correct?’ You inquired, bending to pick up your briefcase, your umbrella hanging from your right arm. I frowned as you rounded me, your light gaze meeting me own.

I turned to watch you, my face hot and my skin prickling at your proximity. ‘How did you-?’

‘A mere deduction, Miss Carter,’ you informed me, and then you were gone.

-

The tea was perfect, of course.

I was almost giddy to have been on the receiving end of the infamous deduction. I had, here and there, flipped through the blog that your brother (was it your bother who ran it?) had run, to keep up to date with cases he had consulted. I wondered, not for the first time, how horribly your brother must have felt in the wake of the accusations of him being a complete fraud, for him to just…jump.

After drinking the tea, I went about the usual routine, keeping clear of locked rooms. I spied out the paintings with a keen eye, thinking of the messages you had sent me. If you were anyone else, I might have been put off by it all. First, you had feigned kidnapping to see if I was a trustworthy employee, then, you had acquired my phone number, either through _Maid to Clean_ or your own means, without my permission.

It made me wonder just how significant your job was. How much _could_ you do? Why was it that you had to ensure those around you could be _trusted_? I was fascinated by the idea that you knew things others did not; that your power was so substantial, and yet…you were named to have a _minor position in the government_. Why, then, were you taking the time to give a struggling painter your attention? Was it pity, I wondered. You saw past the (usually) ironed uniform and polite manner, and saw instead a young woman who was desperate to fulfil her dream of living off of her art. Perhaps, in some way, you wanted to help with that.

Had I truly known you, or known how others saw you, the idea would have been ludicrous.

I finished up in the kitchen and put away your cleaning products in the correct draw. I suppose now is the time to tell you that, as a professional cleaner, your cleaning products were out of this world. As in, it’s almost embarrassing how impressed I was with the unbranded bottles.

Your kitchen always made me rather sad, back then. The emptiness gave it a dark, echoing feel that didn’t seem to belong in a kitchen at all. Kitchens were supposed to be the hub of a home, weren’t there? Then again, your home felt less of a _home_ and more a building in which you inhabited. 

It was then that I noticed the newest post-it notes on the fridge.

It seemed such an out of character thing for someone like you, someone who seemed to entirely together without the need of reminders, to have. But there they were. One, a small square one, with simply ‘25th’ written on it. A second, larger and older one, with two bullet points marking: ‘Milk’ and ‘Eggs’. So, you did cook then. Just very, very unimaginatively.

I can’t really talk. At that time, my diet consisted entirely of varying flavours of Pot Noodle.

I had peered at the list, ignoring a crinkled looking take-out menu for an Indian, and thought for a moment about what I was about to do. There were levels of professionalism that must be adhered to with a job like mine, and tinkering with your client’s things was a big no-go. So far, though, you had been friendly. Well, friendly was quite the stretch. You had, though, acquired my number and messaged me. That was beyond the lines of professionality already.

Perhaps, though, I wanted you to see a flash of the woman beyond the boring job. So, I plucked a post-it notes from the mesh attached to the fridge with a magnet, and scrawled with a pen from the side,

_‘Thank you for the tea, sir. Coffee might better prepare me for a day of cleaning, though – Ophelia’._

I slammed the note on the side and left your house before I could chicken out and throw the note into the trash.

The phone call from my mum was a much-needed distraction as I considered turning around and ridding your house of that stupid note. I’m glad, really, that I hadn’t.

‘Hello, darling’.

My mum is affectionate. Paranoid, a worrier, slightly mad, but affectionate and lovely all the same. She tells me constantly that London is dangerous; that I shouldn’t be living alone as a woman somewhere like London.

I gently reminded her, quite often, that it was not 1812.

The phone call that day, as I walked to Kensington Station, was about the string of murders from the last two years, around the South of England, that police had recently announced were all linked. To someone like me, someone who enjoyed a true crime documentary here and there, it was interesting to see how someone, somewhere, had managed to figure out that the murders spread across those two years were linked at all.

I had watched a morning TV show the day before that had stated your brother would have solved this fact much quicker, had he not been so busy with that terrorist I can’t remember the name of and, you know, _killing himself._

‘-It’s all women, you know. Dark-haired. Like _you_ -’

‘Yes, I know I’m a dark-haired woman, mum-’

‘You know what I _mean_ , Ophelia-’

‘Mum, there are over five million women living in London. I _think_ I’ll be okay-’

‘-Don’t be so _rude_ , Ophelia-’

‘Mum, I’m _not-’_

You get the gist.

-

The next Tuesday, after a week of scrambling through Google to be inspired by paintings I think you might like and pushing aside the thought that cleaning others houses seemed so boring in comparison to yours, I arrived at your townhouse in Kensington to find that you had already left.

The mug of coffee in the kitchen, with a small amount milk and two sugars, had me grinning like an idiot.


	6. Chapter 6

There were never any text messages between us after the initial ones, weeks before. The only contact I had with you in the second month of you being my client was the coffee mug sitting on the counter every morning. I had a feeling, an awkward one, that you were purposefully leaving _just_ before I got there. The note that I had left on the fridge was, too, gone.

And yet, you couldn’t help but leave me that coffee, could you? Ice-Man, my arse.

Of course, I hadn’t yet heard this…nickname. To me, you were stoic and odd and sarcastic and perhaps a little rude. You were a man of power and importance. I had, then, no idea the tangled webs you had slipped through. I had no idea the troubles you went to for those who mattered, and the eyes that you had watching.

It was in the first week of the third month of knowing you, a Friday, that began my ascension into knowing you in quite a…different manner.

I usually stayed in Friday’s, but that week had been a doozy. I was ever so slightly miffed that I hadn’t seen you in nearly four weeks, other than cups of steaming coffee, and decided that dressing up and having a few drinks at Pub in Tooting was needed. Caleb and two of his friends who I had come to know were my company, as well as four gin and tonics.

Caleb ruled the evening in his usual manner, all bright smiles and witty jokes. He bought me drinks because he knew he could, and I was forever grateful that he made sure to stray away from rounds, knowing I could afford such a thing, but am too polite to turn them down.

I was decidedly tipsy when I made my way to the Tooting Bec Underground Station, at quarter past eleven that night.

I was rounding the corner that would bring me to the crossing toward the Tube Station when my phone rang. I had a special ringtone for Caleb, so I knew that it wasn’t him. I had dipped my phone out of my dark denim jeans, grimacing at the small rip in the pocket I had not noticed was there, and frowned at the letters on the screen. I had, you see, forgotten that I had even added you to my contacts as _MH_.

I stumbled to a stop, stared for a moment, and then answered. I honestly think I might have ignored you from sheer nerves had I not been so tipsy.

‘Mister Sir?’ I answered, a little too loudly. I blushed scarlet. ‘No, sorry. _Sir_?’

‘Miss Carter,’ your voice cut across, and I heard it in a way that I had not heard it before. Abrupt and harsh, like you were somewhere where such a tone was needed. ‘You are being followed, turn around _now_ -’

He grabbed me, then.

He smelt like damp cigarettes, even then. You know, like when a cigarette gets wet and then dries, and it smells awful? He smelt like that. He _always_ smelt like that.

I am not the strongest of people, probably something to do with my 5’6 height and penchant for _never_ working out, but I remember being surprised at how quickly he had overpowered me.

I was tipsy and surprised, so the memories feel jagged, but I remember hearing my phone clatter to the ground, and my vision blurring as he pushed and pushed, until my back was being slammed against a damp wall in an alley to our left. It smelt like bins.

I remember so little of him from the first time. I remember he had something dark around his mouth, and that his hood was low, and _that smell._ He pressed close, hands on my shoulders strong, even as I realised what the fuck was happening and began to struggle. I managed to aim a hard smack to what felt like his teeth, but that caused him to grab be all the tighter.

He leaned close, a glimmer of his eyes glinting in the streetlight, and said, ‘ _Did you not like my flowers, Olivia?’_

I hardly listened to him, too busy with kicking and scratching and beginning to yell, realising that was, in fact, something I could do. It was a Friday night, there were loads of people about, I could hear people laughing at that moment, just around the corner-

But then, with a hard push against me, he was gone.

His sudden lack of force against my body had me slipping against the wall, as my yell died in my throat and I became acutely aware of the fact that he had _run away_.

I hear the sirens, then.

-

I had never really frequented Victoria before.

Then again, I had never really frequented Scotland Yard before, either.

The police car had contained a man and a woman, and I was in such a daze that they didn’t really bother asking me too many questions before bundling me into the car. I realised, as I was escorted into the building with a tin blanket around my shoulders, that I wasn’t crying at all.

It was the first time something like that had happened to me. It was a relief to know I wasn’t the type to panic or blubber. No offence to those who do, of course.

I told a woman named Donovan what had happened, and she had nodded and smiled politely as if this had already been relayed to them. In the fuss of confusion and being escorted around the building, I had been momentarily confused. How did they know?

You, of course. How else would the police have arrived so suddenly?

The woman, of whom took the tinfoil blanket away from me, left me with the man who had been in the car. In my sudden awareness, shock dripping away, I realised that he was the one who had wrapped me up and put in the back of the vehicle.

I remember what the Donovan lady had said when she joined a few others, her footsteps clacking as she walked away.

‘How the hell does the Ice-Man know _her_?’

Inspector Lestrade was a nice man. Handsome, too. Nice in the way that made you think he was entirely normal, despite his high status in the London Met Police. He gave me a cup of tea (made awfully, mind you), sat me down in a small room with a heater, and asked me simple questions.

‘Did you see his face, Ophelia?’

‘No’.

‘Did you recognise him at all? Perhaps he’d been at the Pub, too – the Bull Inn, was it?’

‘Yeah…and no. I didn’t recognise him at all. He called me…Olivia, though’.

Inspector Lestrade had nodded and jotted something into a notepad. ‘Close ‘nough to Ophelia to be a coincidence, I suppose. Did he say anything else to you, other than about…the _flowers_ , was it?’

‘No, I have no idea-’ I realised, then. You’ll be so annoyed at how long it took me to put two and two together. The _flowers._ I felt, suddenly, sick. I lurched and placed the mug on the table, and Lestrade had looked at me in alarm.

‘Are you alright-?’

‘Oh God,’ I moaned, rubbing my forehead and grimacing. ‘Oh, _gross_. There were flowers outside of my flat around two, nearly three months ago. I just assumed they were for my neighbours and they’d been kicked around, but they-they never got taken’. Lestrade sat up in alarm and breathed deeply. ‘He’d been in my _building’_.

I was suddenly exhausted. I had never been through something that could be deemed _traumatic_ , and it was interesting how suddenly shock leaves you and tiredness is replaced instead. Lestrade must have seen this, because he quickly said, ‘We’ll be done soon, Miss Carter-’

‘A man called…. called Mycroft Holmes called me. He’s a client of mine. I’m a cleaner,’ I said, realising these facts all of a sudden. ‘My phone – oh, fuck-’

‘One of my police picked it up for you,’ Lestrade had smiled, and I had almost kissed him in relief. ‘You’ll get it back on your way out’.

‘Oh. _Thank you-’_

‘You said _Mycroft Holmes_ called you?’ Lestrade was alert, and the way he spoke made me realise that he knew you. You were, after all, quite important. How could he not? I nodded, swallowing dryly, and Lestrade peered at me.

‘I clean his house,’ I supplied uselessly, once again. ‘He never calls me, but I answered and he…he said I was being _followed_ , that I should _turn around’_. I frowned, then, slightly affronted and curious. ‘How the _fuck_ did he _know_ that?’

‘Mycroft Holmes has his ways. It’s how we were alerted of that you were in trouble,’ mused the Inspector darkly, to which I had looked at him in mild surprise. ‘I, ah, _probably_ shouldn’t say anything’. He turned to look at the closed door, where the sounds of phones ringing and people talking could be heard. He had looked back to me, then said, ‘CCTV cameras are _very_ useful to Mister British Government’.

 _Mister British Government._ All the knowledge I needed, then and there, at how I had been right about your power and prestigiousness. _Minor position in the British Government_. Bull _shit_ You had, though, been watching me. The fact alone was surprising. Unnerving, too.

‘Oh,’ I had responded, not sure what else to say.

Apparently, Lestrade had been thinking the same as me, because he looked at me with a suddenly different glint in his eyes. A studying one, as he looked from my black top, to my smudged mascara, finally ending at my clenched fists. With a flick of his brown eyes to my hazel, he hummed. ‘I thought he was only keeping an eye on _John_ , nowadays…’

‘Pardon?’

He sat up. ‘Nothing, nothing. You’ve been very helpful, Miss Carter. I’ve been told that you have a ride waiting for you in the car park, but I’m going to post a car to go by your flat on the hour. Does that sound alright?’

Surprised at this (surely, and sadly, women must be attacked in London often), I smiled, so entirely grateful to him, and accepted his card the moment he gave it to me. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I told him, suddenly very aware, as he led me toward the exit through the building, that I was dressed in a skimpy top and dark-wash jean. My makeup must have been a _wreck_.

‘Of course,’ Lestrade had replied. ‘We might be calling you for any other information regarding attack, Miss Carter’. I nodded, nearly stumbling to stop when I saw a sleek, black car waiting in front of the double doors of Scotland Yard. ‘We’ll get him’.

-

It wasn’t Anthea in the backseat this time, but you.

I hesitated for a moment in front the lowly humming car, windows tinted black, before pulling open the door, and all but gaping as your cold eyes turned to me.

Your icy gaze was studying me immediately, and I did not miss the way that your entire body seemed to turn as I slid into the car. You were wearing a tuxedo, something of which did not slip my notice. I smiled at you.

You stared. ‘Are you…well?’ You seemed to struggle with the question.

I laughed so suddenly that you actually _jumped._ ‘Sorry,’ I responded hastily. ‘You just make me laugh, sometimes’. I noted that the car had started to move. You looked torn between smiling politely and staring in loss, so I took pity on you. ‘I’m fine, sir. Thank you. Just…shaken’.

You nodded sharply, before jumping right into it. ‘I do feel I have to tell you, Miss Carter, as I am sure the Metropolitan Police will not have in order to not worry you prematurely. The man who attacked you tonight is likely the serial murderer that has been targeting women of your look around the South of England for the past two years. You know, of course, to whom I refer?’

At an utter loss for words, I can only nod. So much for a friendly drive home from a concerned client.

‘The Police will not have told you for the pure fact that they _cannot_ without solid proof that this is true’. You folded your hands on your lap. ‘I, for one, am under no such obligation. Before his death, my brother had an inkling that the multiple murders were the work of a serial killer, but other things…arose that distracted him’.

I was at a literal loss for words. First you had told me a serial killer had rammed me into an alley, now you were talking freely about your brother: _SHERLOCK HOLMES._

You carried on. ‘What the media does not state, is that the victims all had contact with the killer prior to their murders. In some cases, it was silent phone calls. In others, a polite stranger on the street. If my deductions are correct, and I highly doubt they are wrong-’

‘ _Flowers_ ,’ I breathed, blinking to look back at you. It was when I had brought my hand up to rub at my numb, cold cheek that I even realised I was shaking at all.

You offered a stiff smile. You were so close, just on seat over, that I worried you could smell the faint booze on me. ‘Indeed’.

I stared. ‘Well that’s… _alarming’_. _Terrifying. Awful. Ridiculous. It must be a mistake, why would his man, this serial killer, want me?_

_‘-It’s all women, you know. Dark-haired. Like you-’_

‘Yes, well’. Somehow, you managed to make _yes, well_ sound like _no shit_. You paused as the car made a turn, your stiff posture never once breaking. Here you were, in the presence of a frazzled employee who you had just informed was likely being stalked by a serial killer, and you hardly looked put-off at all ‘I must insist-’

‘Were you watching me on CCTV?’ You stiffened, as if caught, before relaxing and answering with a nod. There was no guilt. No apology. I frowned. ‘Why?’

‘A force of habit, I am afraid, to…keep an eye on those who surround me. You’ll be pleased to know you are on only Minimum-Security Watch’. You cast a quick eye down at your black suit. ‘You’ll find this is not my usual attire. I was at a…gala, of sort, when certain people called me to tell of a figure tailing you too closely’.

 _Why?_ Why me, at all. Did the cleanliness of your house really take such importance that you could not risk me being murdered? That, or perhaps I had truly thought so little of you; that you could not possibly _worry_ for others well-being. Inspector Lestrade had called you the British Government, and the Government _cared_ , supposedly, right? The answer was right in front of me, and perhaps my sharpness was a product of a traumatizing night, because I had caught it easily. You keep an eye out for others…it was force of habit. ‘You used to do it for your brother’.

Your admittance is a single nod after a short pause. ‘Yes’. You breathe in sharply, breaking our eye contact, and straighten the chain from your pocket-watch with a small cough. ‘Furthermore, it was last week that I made a connection between your physical appearance and lifestyle to those who our killer has previously…murdered’. You glanced at me, likely gauging my reaction at the use of the word. ‘I have been keeping a…closer eye on you for that reason. Just in case, as they say’.

‘My appearance and lifestyle?’ I repeat, to which you make a noise of affirmation. I am quiet, impatient, when I reply, ‘Go on’.

Your deduction is expected. With a brief incline of your head, you begin. ‘The dark hair is obvious, of course. Long, but not so long. Not your natural colour, a few shades darker than that, but a match to our killers type all the same. Your eyes, also, are dark. All but one of the victims had dark eyes, but that was at the beginning of his...spree’. A small grimace. ‘You are 5’6, your shape slightly heavier than slim for someone of your height. You will find that your…underwear size will exactly match those of his victims’. You had peered at me.

‘You can _tell_ that?’

You had, apparently, been spurred by the wonder in my voice, oppose to any annoyance or a scandalised expression. ‘Size 14. 34D,’ you said, rather shortly.

‘Jesus,’ I laughed, the sound a little high pitched and manic. ‘They should employ you in the Debenhams Dressing Rooms’.

There was a spasm of a smile, and I inwardly whooped. ‘I will keep such a career prospect in mind, Miss Carter’.

‘Go on,’ I urged, entirely entrapped in your deductions. I had never met anyone like you, and I think your brilliance was spelt out to me then. I was yours, even if I did not know it. You were, as I have mentioned before, extraordinary.

‘You are Caucasian; _pale._ Our killer spies out those who are… _pretty_. Not overtly so, but aesthetically pleasing to him. You have no obvious scars or tattoos, as akin to the other victims, and your social circle is very small. You might be considered a recluse. You live away from your parents, you are between the ages of twenty-five and twenty-eight, and you, finally, have or wish to have a career in art’.

 _That_ had caused me to blink in surprise. ‘… _All_ of the others were the same?’

You had nodded. ‘One Graphic Designer, one Illustrator, one Art Teacher, two Architects, and three Painters’.

I swallowed, fingers pressing into the leather of the seats. ‘Four,’ I murmured, without really thinking.

‘I think,’ you had said sharply. ‘ _Not’_. A longer pause this time, one in which I wiped the underside of my eyes with my thumb, cringing when smudged mascara came away. ‘Did you truly not find it odd when you were taken to _Scotland Yard_ over a simple case of assault?’ You sounded almost _frustrated_. ‘You are in London, Miss Carter. The assault of a woman is a depressingly common affair’.

My glower did not phase you. ‘I am not well versed on the ins and outs of these things, Mister Holmes. _Sorry’_. I lowered myself in the seat, fingers drawing my bare, cold arms tighter against my form. ‘You called them. To tell them where I was’.

‘ _Naturally_ ,’ you hummed, thumb swiping across the phone that lay in your lap. I wondered, for a moment, what kind of people someone like you could have on your mobile.

‘ _Thank you_ , sir’. I even surprised myself with the hitch in my voice; the genuine show of emotion. As the words left my mouth, I truly considered what could have happened had you not been watching me. I really could have been the fourth painter on the killers list.

My stomach lurched.

It did not escape my notice when you stiffened, gaze flicking to mine, before you lifted your long nose and corrected your expression into one of cool calm. ‘I assure you, Miss Carter, I will ensure your safety. You will be watched, as you have been for the past week-’

I could only smile tiredly. The passing lights of London made shadows across your pale face. ‘And if I announce such a thing is _invasive_ , sir?’

You mimicked my smile. A quirk of your mouth; nothing like the grimaces and smirks. ‘Then, Miss Carter, I would reply: too bad’.


	7. Chapter 7

I woke up on Sunday far later than I normally would have, likely due to my late night. You had dropped me off outside of my flat, and this time I noticed that the car did not drive away until the door to my building was firmly shut behind me.

Again, I woke up on Sunday later than I usually would, but I did not wake up _naturally_.

There was someone knocking at my door.

Now, I knew full well that Inspector Lestrade would have kept his promise. I would be kept an eye on, if it meant catching a bloody serial killer. One, I’m sure, that was _terrible_ press for the police. Then, there was you. You had people watching, I was sure.

I stumbled into my living room with bare feet and a mess of dark hair, my floral pyjamas rumpled and my hand reaching clumsily for a clay figurine I had made in University clasped between my fingers.

I peered through the key hole, you’ll be glad to know. Usually, I would have just yanked the door open.

Mrs Kauer. My landlady.

Naturally, I opened the door. After discarding my body of the _weapon,_ that is.

She had a frazzled look about her, but a keen smile all the same. She was an older lady, a little yellow from years of drinking and smoking, and her eyes had the bloodshot look of someone who was always nursing a hangover.

‘Ophelia!’ She smiled, all yellowing teeth and hard laugh lines. ‘Thought I’d just pop in and tell ya that we’re gettin’ rid of the lock and key for downstairs. Bein’ replaced as we speak with some fancy scanner. You gotta use-’ With quick hands, she brandished a bundle of fobs, like the ones I had used to get in and out of my University Halls. ‘These now!’

I blinked. ‘Oh, really?’

‘Sure thing, sweetheart,’ she replied, handing me the small black object. ‘It hooks onto your keychain, like. Proper good for security, and ‘all. Never thought I’d own a buildin’ with such a fancy way in, but apparently one of the tenants has a rich family member who wants the best for their littlun. Not you, are it?’

I snorted. ‘No-’

No. No! …No?

 _You_.

Mrs Kaur went on her way with a wave and a smile and after closing the door, I practically ran to grab my phone. There were no new messages (I had not, and would not, inform my mother and father of this stress added to my life), and no calls.

I chewed the side of my mouth, debating whether to message you. If this, in fact, had not been you, I would be mortified. Why would you _care_ so much? Was this pent up worrying that was usually spent on your brother, I wondered?

In the end, I did.

_Really, sir? – Ophelia_

I practically threw my phone onto my bed, face hot, and brushed my teeth whilst staring my tired expression hard in the mirror. I had showered last night when I got into my flat, intent upon getting the grime of the alley off of my skin, and the smell of my attacker out of my nose.

I wondered if I should tell Caleb what had happened but decided against it. Why worry him, when the people who could help knew already?

When I finally picked up my phone, ten minutes later, your initials blinked up at me.

_The door was archaic. A mentally stunted child could have picked their way into the building, let alone our killer who has a penchant for brunettes – MH_

I thought about messaging back but decided against it. Instead, I slunk into the living room in my pyjamas, intent upon staring at the blank canvas intended for you for the rest of the day.

I didn’t paint once that day, just so you know.

-

That night, I sat cross legged in front of a blank canvas, a well-used box of paints to my right, and my phone to my left. Music played slowly in the background; a playlist from _Spotify_ of classical music that, according to the creator of the playlist, _needn’t have gone so hard._

I wondered if you listened to music such as this, or perhaps I was stereotyping you too much. Then again, I could not imagine you listening to anything that might have been in the charts in the last thirty years.

I wondered, then, if you even listened to music. Such a thing would only complete the oddness of you.

It was 10:01 AM when I picked up my phone, a dry paintbrush balanced on my knee. It was 10:05 when I finally clicked on the small box that contained our short messages. It was 10:16 when I finally, finally, typed and sent a very brief message to you.

_What is your favourite song, sir? – Ophelia._

I say and stared at the expanse of white on the canvas, cheeks pink and stomach churning. What an entirely stupid thing to ask you so late at night. What if I woke you up? What if you thought me a stupid child? It was, of course, for the painting you had commissioned me to do, but even _so_ -

Your reply took just over a minute.

_I assume this is not a weak attempt at a late-night conversation, Miss Carter, but an attempt to aid yourself in the piece of art I have commissioned from you. Therefore, I will answer._ _Requiem in D minor, K. 626 - MH_

I smiled, forever amused at your bluntness, before flicking on the song that I half-knew on Spotify. As cliché as it sounds, I feel as if knowing such things about people allows you to know them more, and the thing that surprised me then, Mister Holmes, is precisely how beautiful your favourite song was.

For a man who seemed to detest emotion, your chosen song had me sitting in my living room for the entire three minutes of it, my skin prickling and my mind racing with colours, thoughts, and ideas of what such a thing could mean.

I thought and thought, until my hand seemed to take a mind of its own, mixing blue with white and casting a single line of colour across the blank canvass. I slept, after that, simply because I could and because I knew, then, what the canvas would end up being.

It did not escape my notice that the pale blue stripe across the canvas resembled your eyes almost identically.

**-**

Mister DeLang was always an odd one.

It took me a while to understand that on the few occasions I ran into Mister DeLang, his gaze lingered far too often on the stretch of my polo shirt across my chest, or my rear when I bent to grab the cable to the hoover. It was tedious, yes, but a terrible part of being a woman.

Discomfort becomes a part of that.

This is, from my account, how the death of Mister DeLang came about. I know he was a bad, bad man, Mycroft, but I still feel guilty about what happened.

It is a Wednesday, my usual cleaning day for the DeLang household, that the beginning of his end starts. I had been in the bedroom that I was entirely sure only Mrs DeLang used, considering how often the sheets in the guest bedroom were rumpled.

She had found out about the affair, then.

It was as I tucked the corners of the bedsheet in the further part of the bed, my body stretched to do so, that I heard a quiet scoff.

I jumped and turned, entirely put-off to see Mister DeLang leaning against the doorway, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, and his hair a little more ruffled than usual. ‘Dear God. It’s like she’s bloody _testing_ me, having someone like you loitering around doing _that’_.

Drunk, I had summarized. Obviously bitter toward his wife and sharing said information with me, whilst not hiding the fact that he had been staring at my arse. Fabulous. Just what I needed. Two cases of assault in less than a week to truly add to my sudden cliché of being not only a struggling artist, but a fucking damsel in distress.

I had straightened up, smiled tightly, and replied with a simple, ‘Sir’.

He had moved, then. He wasn’t an overly large man; slightly stocky and a foot taller than me. Large enough for me to become entirely aware of the exit route from the bedroom should he walk too close. I swallowed, peering politely into his bloodshot eyes. ‘And _that_ ,’ he had hiccoughed. ‘ _Sir._ Jesus, it’s like you’re begging to be bent over and f-’

Yeah, so, _fuck professionalism_. ‘Mister DeLang!’ I snapped, drawing myself away from him, ready to round his stumbling form and make my way to the door to the bedroom. Screw finishing the job. ‘I don’t really think that’s-’

The hit hurt, yes, but the fact that he was wearing a bloody _ring_ only added to the pain. I’d never been _hit_ before. My life was far too uneventful for me to have ever partaken in anything like a _fight._ Tears sprung to my eyes before I could stop them, more from shock than anything. I’m quite proud to say that the next words out of my mouth were, as I clutched my cheek and stared up at his surprised, red face, ‘You absolute _dick_ -’

His bubbling started, then. Hot tears jumped down his cheeks, and the glass of amber liquid cluttered onto the carpet. ‘Oh, God. Oh, _God_. My dear, I am so sorry. I was not…I am not _myself_ …you are such a _sweet girl,_ I did not mean to hurt you-!’

I might have felt sorry for him.

My pity only went so far, so with a hand pressed to the shallow cut and forming bruise on my left cheekbone, I pushed past the suddenly sobbing, obviously unwell man and into the hallway. I grabbed my coat on the way out and pushed out into the cold air, my feet crunching hurriedly across the stones of their driveway.

Had I turned left, instead of right, I might have seen _him_ standing there, waring the hoodie and mouth wrap. We would only know he was there later, shadowed by an oak tree as he stood underneath a CCTV camera. He scrambled the CCTV so that no one would see him enter the DeLang’s, like he would do again, later.

At a different murder.

He saw me, of course. He saw me walk briskly down the road and pause, giving myself enough time to inspect the shallow cut on my cheek in the camera of my phone, before I had sworn and marched on, my fists clenched and my eyes watering.

He might have even seen me jump as my phone rang.

He might have even seen me answer it.

I must have rounded the corner by the time I stopped staring at your initials glaring up at me, because of course you were ringing. Of course, you would have seen something amiss on the CCTV cameras you had watching my every move. Had you been alerted, I wonder, that there was something wrong with The Cleaner? Is that what they referred to me as, I wonder?

Your tone was far more clipped than I had heard it before when I answered. I didn’t even have time to say hello. ‘Apparently, Miss Carter, I have good reason to keep an eye on you, as I did my brother. Trouble seem to _follow you both_. Mister DeLang, a known alcoholic and womanizer, _stumbles_ into his house. Fifteen minutes later, _you_ emerge clutching your obviously injured _cheek_. I am going to assume the worst, I am afraid, so do not waste your breath. A car is three minutes away from your location. _Wait there’._

You had hung up.

Just like that.

Yes, admittedly, I might have half-shouted a, ‘Why are men such _wankers!’_ startling an old woman walking her dog on the other side of the road. Part of me wanted to shout across the road to her, too. To tell her that I wasn’t normally the person shouting at their phone or having breakdowns in posh areas. I wanted to tell her to not be so bloody judgemental, because not only was a fucking serial killer on my tale, but now one of my employers had _backhanded_ me!

The fucking _DeLang’s_. One did not report the _DeLang’s._

I leant into the hedge behind me, finely trimmed and prickly against my back, and winced as I touched the tender skin of my cheek. The horribleness of what I had just happened had started to settle around me, and I felt a pang of upset. I had never been someone’s punching bag before. It was not a nice feeling.

It was your car that had swung around the corner moments later, and I quickly found that you were not in it.

No one was.

I mean, obviously there was a driver. The partition, though, was up, and even my quick tapping against the black glass and a, ‘Um, excuse me, where are we going?’ was not answered. The thing is, I knew that this was your doing, and in my three and a half months of having you as my client, I somehow trusted you inexplicably.

-

An hour later, I had stood in your house, feeling like a lump of coal amongst diamonds. It was the art show all over again, except this time I, thankfully, did not have audience to recognise how little I belonged. When I was cleaning your house, I knew my place. To be just dropped there by a driver, who I still had not seen, made me feel different. I was a guest in the house, not a worker, nor a duster, nor a cleaner.

I stood in your entryway for perhaps ten minutes, my scuffed shoes a stark contrast to your dark wood flooring, and my echoing, ‘ _Hello_?’ going completely unanswered. I didn’t know what to _do_. I had assumed your driver would dump me at my flat, but your instructions had obviously stated otherwise. Instead, I had been brought to your house.

I was starting to wonder whether your paranoia knew any bounds.

I waited, back aching from standing straight for so long, and mind a worry of thoughts of being fired. How would I pay my rent? It was a cleaning job, yes, but a good one that paid well.

Ten minutes turned into twenty, and I all but jumped out my skin when there was a clatter at the front door, and then, with relief pooling into me, there you were. You looked nothing like I did at the end of a work day, I will tell you that much. Your receding hair was still entirely styled, your three-piece suit sat neatly against your tall form, and your shiny shoes clacked against your flooring.

You spied me out with a curious look as the door swung shut behind you. ‘…I was informed the moment you were dropped off, Miss Carter. Was that not nearly twenty-five minutes ago?’

I could only nod jerkily, face heating up. My cheek throbbed. I was quite pleased at myself for not crying. ‘Um. Yes, sir’.

You stared, briefcase slowly lowering to the floor of your entryway. ‘I see. You have been standing there for twenty-five minutes’.

‘…It seemed rude to just _wander_ around, sir’.

You looked as if you were struggling to not find the entire conversation bemusing, and instead your focus fell upon my throbbing cheek. I had inspected it closely in the mirror hanging in your hallway and found that the cut was extremely shallow. The bruising would be worse, if anything. I did not miss the tightening of your jaw, not the straightening of your form, before you were marching toward me with a clacking of expensive shoes against hardwood.

And then you were there, standing before me, just a breath away. My mind, awhirl with the happenings of the last week as well as any worried I might lose my job, stalled catastrophically as I came to the conclusion that I have never been so close to you, standing. You smelt of expensive cologne; an inherently male smell. You were more ginger than I had once thought. You had a mole on your right cheek.

I watched, with mild fascination, as your hand rose, before it fell quickly to your side. A flick of my gaze allowed me to see your fingers clench and unclench quickly, and I was reminded so foolishly of _Pride and Prejudice._ I felt suddenly warm all over. ‘He struck you,’ you relayed, as if telling me the time of day. There was a slight twitch to your right eyebrow. I watched, slightly breathless.

Despite the horror of the last few days, it was the first time I wondered what pressing my mouth to yours would be like.

‘He was drunk,’ I told you, quiet, afraid to make you step away from me. ‘Hammered, really. I’ve known for quite a while that Mister DeLang has been having an affair…The way he was acting makes me think that Mrs DeLang found out. He was…’ I struggled to find the words, my nose wrinkling somewhat. ‘Well,’ I settled. ‘You know the usual cliché of the disloyal husband and the housekeeper, sir’.

I had seen it, then. The flicker or annoyance; of _anger_. The flare of the nostrils, the jump in your jaw, the quick intake of breath. You’re not the only one with a watchful eye, you know. ‘I see,’ you bit out, the words akin to a low hiss. ‘And he did not touch you in any other manner?’

‘No’. I swallowed and smiled, which only amounted in a long grimace as my cheek throbbed. ‘I believe we would be dealing with a very _castrated_ Mister DeLang were that the case, sir. I do sharpen their knives for them’.

Your fingers twitched once again, but your hand remained solidly at your side. I felt oddly disappointed, and the knowledge that my crush for you was so obviously at the front of my mind was disconcerting. There was no way I could get a crush on the likes of _you_. That was dangerous territory. Not only that, but you were likely twenty years my senior.

‘I have taken the liberty of informing the police of the attack. There will be no repercussions to someone of Mister Delang’s status, I am sure have already guessed. A mere slap on the wrist, as it were,’ you said, holding up a hand when I opened my mouth, my eyes wide. ‘I assure you, your job is not on the line. I feel you should know, though I am sure you are quite aware, I have quite an…influence on certain things, Miss Carter’.

‘I began to guess your title of _minor position_ within the government might be a slight under-exaggeration, sir. Also…Inspector Lestrade _did_ call you _Mister British Government’_.

‘How disappointedly idle of him’.

‘I thought the same, sir’.

I smiled. Your mouth twitched. ‘You must understand, Miss Carter,’ you began, after a moment of pause. ‘There are not many I do such…well, I do not wish to call this a favour, because it is for my own peace of mind, I must admit, that I offer you assistance. You should know, though, that I am not an individual who surrounds himself with others’.

I was quite sure you would be able hear my pulse hammering in that moment. ‘I’ll take it as a compliment then, sir’.

Your smile was tight. ‘There are many who would not, Miss Carter’.

I shrugged. ‘I can’t bring myself to care, sir’.

You looked entirely uncomfortable with the whole conversation, so I was almost glad when you said, stiffly, ‘Yes, well. I am sure there is a First Aid Kit somewhere. You may use it for your…injury’.

-

‘Why have you done that? By putting the cotton bud on the table, you have backtracked the entire purpose of soaking it in alcohol,’ you snipped, standing to the side of me, three-piece suit still on. I wondered if you _slept_ in it.

I glared at the mirror you had placed before me, my bum planted on one of the chairs in your ornate dining room. There were statues of knights and horses. That was something I would never get over, even when dusting them. ‘With all due respect, _sir-’_

‘Oh, good Lord, give it _here’._

Soon enough, I was ordered to face you as you sat in the seat beside me, my knees nearly touching yours. Now that I know your deductive skills better, I am entirely sure you could have easily spy out my pink cheeks, glassy gaze and fiddling hands. Then again, I did not miss the stiffness in your shoulders as you glared at my cheek, your steady hand going about dabbing the stinging alcohol against the shallow cut.

Our knees did not touch, but the feel of your thumb against my cheek _burnt_.

‘I doubt it needs any of this, anyway,’ I grumbled. ‘It’s so shallow-’

‘People have lost limbs from less, Miss Carter’.

‘…Well, that seems a tad dramatic, sir’.

I jumped when one of your fingers touched the tender skin of my bruised cheek, likely steadying me as my head moved. You gaze flicked to mine, and I flushed bloody _scarlet_. In return, you said nothing, other than dropping your hands from my face and announcing, ‘There’.

‘Thank God,’ I replied, deadpan. ‘I can rest in peace knowing my head will not drop off from infection’.

Your look of displeasure only pleased me more. ‘I might prefer the days when you were too nervous to utter a sound in my presence,’ you drawled, ignoring my noise of protest. Gathering the product around you, you slipped each of them into the small green box.

‘You’re quite good at that,’ I said, without really thinking. You looked at me, pausing as you snapped the lid shut. ‘I mean…That. What you just did it’. I wanted to smack myself. When did I become so unable to speak?

You said nothing for just a few moments, and then, ‘I had a lot of practice with my brother’. You said nothing else, and there was no room for me to reply, as you stood briskly, offering me a, ‘You may thank me by not growing annoyed when I inform you, I have notified _Maid to Clean_ that you will not be in work for the rest of the week’.

_‘What?!’_

Professionalism was most certainly out of the window. I stood, chair scraping lightly as I did so, and followed you into the kitchen, where you tucked the First Aid box into the drawer above the dishwasher. You turned to me. ‘I am under the impression that for normal people, the stresses that you have been under the past few days might require a time to…rest’.

I looked at you, then. Properly, I mean. You were a man I had known for over three months, and in that time, I had more run ins with you than I did any other of my clients. You had, in your way, wormed you way into my life as trouble followed me, and you deflected such troubles in your own way. It was inappropriate, entirely so, that I was even in your house at that moment. When I looked at you then, though, I saw only a stiff man, jaw tight and blue eyes cold. Iceman, they called you. I agreed, of course. You _were_. But what man of ice would do such warm things for another person? You had, so far, only _helped_ me. Ordinary, far less intelligent than you, _me_.

‘I am so, _so_ grateful, but…I don’t understand why you keep doing these things for me, sir’. My voice was quiet in the silence of the house.

You throat worked as you swallowed. Both fists clenched and unclenched rapidly. ‘I will admit, Miss Carter, that I do not quite know the answer myself’.

You looked at me, and I looked at you, and it seemed so entirely silly that someone like you bothered to look at me at all. I wanted to say something else, something that showed more gratitude, but it was at that moment that a dull vibrating filled your dimly lit kitchen.

You answered the phone with a, ‘What?’

I waited.

Your brow constricted. The expressions seemed so out of character for you, that my interest was piqued.

You looked at me sharply. ‘I see’. A pause. My brow furrowed. I stepped closer to you. ‘No’. A shorter pause. ‘Because that is impossible’. And then, with your chin high and a note of force in your tone that would silence anyone, ‘I know that Miss Carter did not _murder_ Mister DeLang, because she has been in my company for nearly two hours, _Inspector_ Lestrade’.


	8. Chapter 8

Panic.

Panic.

Panic.

‘What I said about the knives,’ I blundered, nearly five minutes after you had snapped your phone shut. ‘Was a _joke_. A poor joke, in retrospect, but a _joke-_ ’

‘Miss Carter, I have already informed Scotland Yard that there is no possible way you would have been able to kill Marcus DeLang. You left the house within _fifteen minutes_ of him entering-’

‘-I _know_ he hit me, but _Jesus Christ._ He didn’t deserve to die! Who did this? I’ve only been here for two hours! Were they…there when _I_ was there?’

‘Miss Carter, I insist you calm down. Hysterical women are _not_ within my forte-’

‘No. Right. Sorry’. My words may have indicated calming down, but I seemed to be doing anything _but_. I was breathing heavily, my palm pressed against my chest, and my other one combing through my now loose hair frantically. ‘ _Sorry_ ,’ I repeated, torn between horror at what I had just learned, and mortification at having what appeared to be a panic attack in front of _you_.

You looked mildly unnerved. Later, I would find your expression funny.

It was _my_ phone making a noise that took both of our attentions this time. I scrambled to reach the device, slotted into my back pocket. The screen was slightly cracked along the sides after my run in with the unnamed serial killer/stalker. You watched as I flipped the message open.

I lurched backwards, practically throwing the phone at you. You caught it with an affronted air. ‘ _Nope_ ,’ I bit out, stomach reeling somewhat. ‘No, no, no, _no_ -’

I pushed myself against the counter, head dipped and mind whirring, only half-hearing you as you called, I assumed, Lestrade on your own phone. My fingers pressed against the marble countertop, my mind whirring over the events of me leaving the DeLang house, my hand clutched to my cheek, my shock hindering me from seeing anything around me.

‘-An unknown number. _Obviously_ , Inspector. Yes. _He won’t hurt you and get away with it._ I _think_ we can assume who that is referring to, Inspector. In _deed._ The signature is simply a question mark. Yes. _Yes._ I will have someone drop it off to the Yard within the hour’.

Your silence told me that the conversation with Inspector Lestrade was over. ‘He wanted them to _know_ it wasn’t _me_ ,’ I mutter, staring at your black and white flooring. My head felt oddly heavy. ‘How could he _possibly_ get me if I’m locked away?’

You don’t move from your spot. ‘Impressive skills of deduction’.

I snort quietly. ‘Don’t be so _nice_. I know you’re thinking _obviously, Miss Carter’._ When I glance back up at you, you are watching me quietly, nose upturned, and mouth pulled into a frown. You were thinking. ‘What _now_ , sir? On top of calling me in sick to work without my permission, changing the locks to my _building_ , and _watching me on CCTV_ , I’m starting to become annoyingly used to _that_ look-’

‘It would appear our _Question Mark Killer,_ as it were, has been watching you more closely than we imagined’. A flare of your nostrils told me that this was not something you were fond of at all. ‘Because of this, I am going to suggest that you sleep here for the night’.

I was not expecting _that_. I stared at you, brow pulled tight and mouth open. ‘ _Why?’_ You considered the question with a mockingly cocked brow. ‘I’m _nothing_ special to you, sir. I clean your _house_ , for God’s sake. I’m so very grateful for all that you’ve done for me, because I know for a fact, I would be dead right now without you, but _why_ are _you_ going so far to help _me_?’

This time, you didn’t bother with a _I will admit, Miss Carter, that I do not quite know the answer, either._ You were stiff as a board, my phone held tightly in your hand. I thought, for a moment, that I might have broken you. ‘I have an extremely busy life, Miss Carter. You will understand, by now, that I am not simply hold a…minor position within the government. You recognise that this is _not_ public knowledge and should stay this way. Regimes have risen and fallen with a mere phone call from me’. Your throat worked, your eyes scanning my face as you spoke. Perhaps you were deducing any signs of fear. I gave none. I had none. ‘I am telling you this because it is my belief that such information will allow you to trust me. I find myself… _fretting_ over your well-being. Such a thing, I will admit, is a hinderance, and I feel my mind would be able to work at a far smoother pace should you be here where, even if I am absent, I will know you are _safe’._

I decided then that I was lucky. Admittedly, I was entirely wrapped up in something terrible and awful; something of which I am sure your brother would have been part of, were he still ‘alive’. And yet, I had you. Someone willing to step out and _protect me._ It made no sense to me then, and it hardly does now, but I felt that not accepting such help would hurt, in the end, the both of us.

I likely should have been concerned at this first show of…possessiveness, though. I suppose I was so entirely wrapped up in _not looking a gift horse in the mouth._

‘I’ll stay if you tell me _one thing_ , sir’. You had blinked in momentary surprise, nose wrinkling somewhat. I cleared my throat and pushed myself away from the counter. After a while, you gave a funny little spasm of a smile that looked like it might have hurt you, and I scoffed. ‘Why is the code for your house 1852?’

You eyed me, before sighing. ‘ _1852_. The date in which Samuel Fox invented the umbrella, Miss Carter’.

I stared at you, mouth twitching. ‘That’s very weird, sir. I’ll stay, though. For your, uh, peace of mind’.

You had inclined your head without pause, apparently used to such insults. ‘Very well’. You breathed in through your nose and held my phone higher. ‘As you may have gathered from my conversation with Inspector Lestrade, the presence of your mobile phone is being requested at Scotland Yard. I assume you have no quarrel with this?’

I did, but I figured _bigger picture_ , and all. ‘Of course, not,’ I lied. ‘I…I’m going to have to call my mum, though. And Caleb. It’ll only cause worry if I don’t reply to them, and I don’t…’

You considered me. ‘You have not informed them of your-’

‘Stalker?’ I supplied, smile a little shaky. It was early, only half past five, I was sure, but I was exhausted. You made a low noise at my word. ‘No. I won’t, either. They’ll just…worry. There’s nothing worse than my mother _worrying_ about me. I won’t get rid of her’.

At that, you managed something akin to a smile of amusement. ‘We may have one thing in common, Miss Carter. Bothersome parents’.

-

‘Yeah. _Yes_ , mum. My number will go over to the new network in a few days, so I just won’t be able to answer the phone’. I was standing in the hallway, very much aware of the fact that you were waiting for the moment I hung up, so that you could take my phone with you into whatever car was going to whisk you away to Scotland Yard. ‘Okay. Alright. No. I love you, too. Bye. Bye. _Love you_. Bye’.

You looked ever so slightly horrified when I turned to you, hand outstretched with my phone. ‘Good Lord,’ you muttered.

That actually managed to crack me up a bit. ‘She’s a very affectionate woman, sir’.

‘ _Hmm_ ,’ you replied sharply, taking the phone from my hand without touching me once. I thought, for a moment, of the feel of your fingers against the throbbing of my cheek. I wondered if you would ever touch me again.

A stupid thought, one of which I banished.

‘Would it not make more sense to send me to some Hotel, sir? I could pay my way…somehow. Inspector Lestrade has already told me that the police will watch over me-’

‘As far as I am concerned, _this_ is the safest place for you, right now. My security measures go beyond the code you enter upon frequenting my home-’

I blinked at that. ‘What, do you have snipers hiding in the blossom trees down the street?’ You stared, unimpressed. ‘You probably _do’_.

In the end, you complied with my shaky humour and insisted that, as long as I respected your privacy to the same degree as I did when cleaning, you saw no harm in leaving me alone to make myself comfortable. I agreed, albeit hesitantly. Had I known you outside of our secluded relationship, I might have known how entirely out of character this was for you to do.

You left with a stiff nod and a, ‘The Guest Bedroom along the furthest corridor is yours for the night. There is an ensuite at your disposal’. You looked momentarily as if you did not know what more to say to a guest who staying in your home. I highly doubted this was a common occurrence for you. ‘I will return with something you can sleep in’.

‘Righto,’ I replied, then felt very stupid for saying _righto._ ‘…Thank you, sir. And will you…if you see Mrs DeLang, would you send my…my _sympathy’._ It seemed like the right thing to say and, truly, I did feel sorry for the woman. Her husband had been horrible, but I was still sorry he was dead.

You looked at me for a long moment, eyes narrowing momentarily, before you inclined your head, stepped onto the threshold, and the last thing I heard you say, was, ‘I will. I cannot, though, force myself to share the sentiment, Ophelia’.

-

The Guest Bedroom looked as if it had never been used, and I supposed that was why I had only cleaned it once or twice, and that was to dust. The bed was large, the curtains open, and the mirror slightly dusty. I thought about grabbing a cloth from downstairs to wipe at it with but decided that might be quite an odd thing to do.

I sat on the bed hesitantly, at first, but with a great groan and a tug at my hair, I curled into the ironed, plain sheets and pressed my bare face to the pillow.

Today, I decided, had been a bad day.

I fell asleep quickly, as I usually do, but was awoken rather abruptly by a prod to my shoulder and a loud, sharp call of my name.

I started, mouth dry and eyes snapping open. ‘Oh my _God-’_ Your assistant stood before me, beautiful and put-together and eyeing me as if I resembled a very sad looking three-legged dog. I hoped I hadn’t been snoring.

‘These are for you’. She thrust a bundle of folded, purple silk fabric my way, her expression blank and her Blackberry balanced in her free hand. ‘Although, I see you had little need for them’. Her dark gaze fluttered up and down my now rumpled uniform.

I scrambled to stand with a, ‘Oh, er, yes. Thanks. Very much. What’s…what’s your name, again?’

‘I never gave it to you,’ she had replied, a small smirk adorning her pretty face. I wondered if, perhaps, there was a reason you hired someone as pretty as her. I banished the thought the moment in came. ‘You can call me Anthea’.

‘…Is that not your name, or something-?’

‘Anyway, there’s food on the Dining Room table for you. Your favourite is _Wagamama’s_ , right? It’s the only place you really order from… _when_ you order-’

‘Right. Yeah. I’m, like, broke half of the time…I don’t know why I told you _that_ -’

We stared at each other for a good for seconds, your assistant and I. Finally, she sighed and said, clipped, ‘I’m going to leave. Mister Holmes will not be returning tonight’. With that, she turned on her heel, entirely ignoring my spluttering and half asked questions.

I stood there for what seemed like eons.

You would not be returning home. Why, I wondered? Did my presence in your home make you uncomfortable? Was the situation at Scotland Yard so terrible? Or, perhaps, you had issues that had nothing to do with me. You were, despite what you attempted to present to others, an important person to not only the Government, but _Britain_.

I had never felt more like a mere speck in your life. But then again, that was just it. I was _not_ in your life. I was a mess that you tidied, because, as you stated, you could not take the nagging in your mind of whether I was dead or not. A hinderance, you called it.

A hinderance, I was.

The clothes Anthea had given me were silk pyjamas, and likely more expensive than I would ever want to know. I slipped into them and wandered to your kitchen, feeling out of place and awkward amongst your treasures and riches. The house was quiet, silent, and I wondered how often you really spent in it. Surely, such a lonely silence could not do anyone any good.

I should know.

I ate the Yasai Ramen quickly, sleep still on my mind and a coldness seeping into me that came with the knowledge you would not be returning that night. Was I relieved or disappointed? Even then, I could not tell.

Before bed, I looked into the mirror of the guest ensuite and prodded at my bruising cheek and thought of where Mister DeLang’s body was. Had Mrs DeLang had to identify him? How had he been killed, exactly? The thoughts did not make me as sick as I thought they would have, and I was both worried and proud of my reaction to all of this.

I crawled on top of the bed, oddly cautious of messing with the sheets, and left the pyjamas folded in a neat pile on the pillow the next day. The takeaway rubbish, I threw into the bin. On the fridge, I left a note, simply stating, ‘ _Thank you, sir. I have gone home, and I am safe - Ophelia’._

I walked far enough so that I could hail a taxi, and returned to my flat with the knowledge that maybe I should have messaged you, maybe I should have waited for you to come home, and maybe _you_ should not have been such a weird, stoic man.


	9. Chapter 9

I spent the morning holed away in my flat, more than aware that with the blue paint that soiled my fingertips and striped across my forearms, I was beginning to look like a vertically stunted version of an _Avatar_.

The blue took up the left side of the painting, stripes of light and dark on the bottom half, creating an effect of glinting, cold water that made my heart beat in anticipation. So far, I was wholly pleased with what I was crafting for you. That, and Mozart blaring in the background was actually lightening my mood somewhat.

For a good hour that morning after leaving yours and just painting, I did not think of the _Question Mark Killer,_ a name I was beginning to think sounded like a knock-off Batman villain. I did not think of the police likely driving past my flat. I did not think of the fact that you likely had people watching me. My mind was simply music and paint and busy hands.

I’m quite good at shutting down traumatic events in a near unhealthy way, apparently.

I didn’t even think when there was a light and quick knock at the door, unfamiliar from my landladies. I stood, humming the tune to _Requiem_ , and padded across the floor in shorts and a strapped shirt that was mottled with various colours of paints from over the years.

It was only when I was halfway through opening the door that I remember that, well, a serial killer was likely stalking me, but by that point, I had already seen who was on the other side of my battered front door.

You, of course.

You considered me with a downturned mouth and a cold gaze, your dark and tall form so unwelcome in the utter mundaneness of my buildings landing. Your umbrella hung over one arm, and in your other you held a familiar bundle of clothing.

You tilted your head and Mozart ended and then started again, to which you cast a quick look over my head and into my flat.

I gawped.

‘First,’ you began, gaze returning to mine, but not before your blue eyes flickered down my form and, oh God, I was hardly wearing anything, was I? Not only that, but I was striped in paint like a fucking zebra. ‘You leave a dwelling, that I had _thought_ I had iterated _enough,_ was safe. Then, Miss Carter, you return a _gift’_.

I tried very hard to not let a long _uuuuuh_ leave my mouth, and instead settled on, ‘I thought you might want them back!’ In a decidedly overly defensive manner.

You assessed me as if I was the stupidest person you have ever met. Honestly, I felt rather stupid in that moment. ‘Do I seem like the type to either have female companions stay at my home, who I buy sleep clothes for, or _wear myself?_ Considering these are the two options that would make sense, I would hope your answer to both would be _no_ , Miss Carter’.

Before I could reply, I heard a door open and shut on the floor above and ushered you in with a roll of my eyes and a, ‘Just come in, _Mister Holmes’_.

I didn’t allow myself to think beyond talking to you, because if I truly considered you, in your handsome, tall and powerful glory being in _my flat_ , I might have had a complete breakdown then and there. You stepped in, shoes clicking and back straight, and I went to shut the door behind you, my own frame made shorter against yours with my lack of shoes.

‘Now,’ you began, still holding the bundle of silk pyjamas. You looked entirely put-out to be in my colourful home. ‘I am curious, _what_ thought process concluded in you leaving my home before I could return to divulge you of any progression in the case of our killer? I would be _very_ interested in knowing how you came to this _magnificent_ resolution, Miss-’

You turned, not even looking at me as you assessed my flat and gave me a verbal beating, and I was reacting and remembering before I could even think of _who_ _you were._ In all of my graceful, Ophelia-ness, I had grabbed you by the arm and heaved you to turn my way with a startled noise from myself, toward the small kitchenette, once again.

Your expression had been almost hilariously shocked. ‘ _What_ -?’

‘Your painting is over there!’ I snapped, scrambling past you and ordering you to turn away from the living room area, where the canvas sat, illuminated by the window and TV behind it. Mozart ended and began once again. ‘I don’t want you to see it yet – turn around!’ I ordered, quickly kicking the paints aside and spinning the canvas around as quickly as I could.

‘I am _not_ looking!’

‘I _saw_ you turning, sir-’

‘I most certainly did _not_ -’

With the canvas turned away, I stood in the middle of my living room in dark shorts and a paint splattered shirt and breathed out, ‘Crisis averted. You can turn around now, sir’.

You turned with a displeased expression that I was beginning to realise no longer frightened me, and stared for a few seconds before stating, ‘Blue’.

I laughed, short and loud. You wrinkled your nose. ‘I here I thought your brother was the consulting detective’.

For a split second, I was mortified at mentioning your dead brother, but you merely cocked a brow at me, leant against your umbrella, and replied, ‘I think you will find that _I_ was the smart one compared to my brother, Miss Carter’.

‘I didn’t know him, so that means nearly nothing to me, _Mister Holmes’_. You smirked. I ignored the chill that went over my exposed skin. ‘And, yes. _Blue_ , sir’.

You hummed. ‘I see I was correct in assuming that Mozart would assist you in your creative flummox’. You nodded toward the small speaker on a side table, inhabited also by a fake plant, and looked back to me. ‘Why blue, might I ask?’

My first thought was, _don’t say it_. My second was, _fuck it._ ‘Your eyes are blue’. I take pride, even now, that I managed to leave you silent in that moment, your mouth slightly open and your gaze unblinking. Not one to linger on an awkward pause, I added, ‘In reply to your annoyance at me being here rather than at your home, I wasn’t aware I should have stayed. Anthea never said, other than the fact that you would not be returning last night’.

You came back to yourself quickly. ‘I thought it was _obvious’_.

I smiled thinly. ‘Apparently not’.

You were growing annoyed. A coldness was slipping back into your expression. With a resolute step, you stood now beside my sofa and placed the folded clothes on the back cushion. ‘I enjoy not perceiving you as quite so stupid as others I interact with, Miss Carter, but in this moment, you are meeting my worst expectations. Either you are wilfully ignorant, or you choose to put yourself in danger’.

You had not spoken to me like that before; cold and authoritative and with straight shoulders and unblinking gaze. As unnerving as the scolding was, something warm stirred within me. It was quite the revelation, you know, to come to the quick conclusion that apparently a scolding from someone like you was something I might _like_.

‘Disregarding either option, I will tell you this in the simplest of ways: here, in your home, you are not safe. Your window, there, is loose. I can see from here that at least three of the screws are rusted and can be easily broken if enough force is applied. Despite the precautions taken with the outer entrances to this… _building-_ ’ You said it as if you were not standing inside my building, but instead a dilapidated prison. ‘Your front door is practically _plywood_. I am acquaintances with an elderly woman shorter that even _you_ who, with enough might, could likely knock that sorry excuse for a door down. Your closest neighbour is half deaf, furthermore. How would such a person hear your screams, should you be attacked in the night?’

 _That_ cast aside my snide thoughts for a startling moment.

You were apparently spurred on by whatever minute change in my expression has occurred. ‘And now, without thought, you open your door without knowing who is on the other side-’

‘I looked through the-’

‘You did _not_ look through the peep hole, Miss Carter. You did not pause before opening the door and the light from my view of the hole was not obscured in the slightest. _Remember_ who you are talking to and do not lie to me’. My cheeks coloured and my breath came short for a moment. Perhaps I was slightly too keen to hear orders on your tongue. ‘Not only that, but you answer the door to who could have been our killer in…revealing clothing-’

I held up my hand. ‘The dig at my height I’ll take, but let’s not bring into this the discussion of feminism and what a woman should wear in her own home, shall we?’

You scowled; mouth pulled into a grimace. ‘All victims were raped, Miss Carter. Do you not think that a lesser being, a _foul_ one, would only be spurred on in an attack from seeing you like this?’ You assessed me with a flicking gaze, eyes trained on my face. ‘The blame is not yours, yet… _precautions_ must be taken’.

There was a leading in your tone, and I looked at you. Looking over your blank expression and stiff build, I considered the way in which I had so easily allowed you to force yourself rudely into my life outside of work. It was rare for me to do such a thing. It was why I had so few friends. Perhaps it was fondness or guesswork that made me realise, with a slip of quiet disbelief and ready acceptance ‘You want me to stay with you. Until this is… _over’_.

A flash of surprise, before you assessed me coolly. Your mouth pulled into that grimace of a smile that was so entirely fake, I hardly wanted to look at it. ‘I have disclosed with only Inspector Lestrade this plan. Upon reviewing where the message you received earlier had originated from, it has been deduced that the killer is decidedly more intelligent than we first thought. He has managed to scramble the message in such a way that there are nearly fifty locations up and down the South of England it could have been sent from. Additionally, the CCTV footage from the night of your attack had been…disturbed’.

It was all rather too much, too suddenly. Leave my flat, to stay with you, a man I hardly knew. No matter how fond I was of you, nor how comfortable I felt in your presence, it would be more… _normal_ to say _no_. I huffed a laugh, staring at you. ‘Surely there are other places I could go. Protection offered by Scotland Yard – _anything_. Sir, you don’t want your _cleaner_ staying with you because she’s got herself a psychotic stalker with a penchant for curvy brunettes who paint. You’re a _private man_ , surely this would be a nightmare for you’.

Again, that flicker of surprise.

‘I-’ You paused, grimaced, and gripped the handle of your umbrella with both hands. ‘If you repeat any of what I am about to say to anyone, Miss Carter, you will find yourself with dire consequences’.

I almost cracked a smile. ‘The snipers again, sir?’

Your gaze softened. ‘Perhaps’. You straightened your back, eyes darting to the floor, before they found mine once again. The softness was gone. ‘I have been told before by those I trust to know me well, that I am _lonely_ , Miss Carter. I refute the idea, and still do. I am not lonely, because I _need_ no one. Companionship and… _needing_ others are weaknesses, something of which I have allowed myself to grow past. I have none I consider _friends,_ only those I know I can converse with, with some enjoyment. You, Miss Carter, are a surprise to even me, because the need to solve this case seems minutely less important, in comparison to your safety. I do not know the reason, for you are not overtly _remarkable_ compared to others I know. And yet…I am… _fond_ of your company. For that reason, I can only assume that to work to my greatest capability, I must keep you under my thumb, as it were. If you are within the confines of my home, you are _safe,_ and your safety is within my _control’_.

Your words had…troubled me. There wan air of control in them; of doing what you saw to be right because you saw it as so. ‘Oh,’ I replied, decision quite made. Certainly, some of what you said could be considered rude, but the other parts, the truth that I know must have _pained_ you say, that was what made me go with you.

Where _would_ I be safer, but your home? Perhaps I really did need to think of myself; to realise that this was _dangerous_. ‘I’ll go pack then, sir. Please, sit down or…do whatever you do when no one is looking’.

I ignored your flash of surprise and ducked out of the living room.

-

I packed simply, but not before grimacing at the reflection my second-hand full-length mirror revealed to me. Too much skin revealed, and most of it spattered with stripes of blue and white. To top it all off, I had not even considered that my pyjamas shorts were decorated with faded and colourful dinosaurs.

I looked like an overgrown toddler but pushed the embarrassment to the part of my mind where such things went.

It was as I stuffed numerous pairs of underwear into the side pocket of my small suitcase that I even contemplated what was happening. You had somehow allowed me to know the smallest things about you, but also enough to ensure I could trust you enough to stay with you. You had revealed your higher position in the Government, showing me adequate details of you to know that you were no joke. _Regimes have fallen and risen with a simple phone call from me,_ you had said.

What was even more disconcerting, was that you yourself were only protecting me so that you could push the worry of my safety from your mind. Friend was a word you had mentioned in association with what you did not consider others, and I wondered if that was you telling me, in the most painful way possible, that you considered me something akin to this.

I remember thinking, then, that you were protecting me because it is was better for _you_.

-

I appeared in the doorway to my bedroom with my small and battered suitcase, dressed hastily in dark jeans and a mustard, loose jumper.

You were standing in the exact same position I had left you in, and I wondered not for the first time if you really _were_ some kind of robot.

With an odd look your way, which you replied with an affronted one of your own, I dumped my suitcase in the hallway and darted into the bathroom, aware of being as quick as I could. I grabbed my toothbrush, some toothpaste, and was halfway through ducking into my shower to grab my bottles of shampoo and conditioner, when your drawl cut through my scrambling.

‘You need not bring such things. They have already been supplied for you’.

I straightened up and looked at you, noticing now that you stood in the entrance to my small, squeaky clean bathroom, your figure a stark contrast to my flat. Assessing you with a narrow look, I replied, ‘That was presumptuous of you, sir’.

You cocked a brow. ‘When you choose to be, you can be rather _logical_ , I say with an ounce of disbelief. I assumed you would take my offer were you feeling especially-’

‘Logical, sir?’ I hummed, clicked my tongue, and left my bathroom with only my toothbrush. You hardly moved as I brushed past you, and I was suddenly assaulted with an expensive smell that smelt far more attractive than I would have liked. Ignoring this, I stuffed the toothbrush into the front pocket of my suitcase, looked up and eyed you with a dry look. ‘Presumptuous,’ I concluded.

‘ _Prepared_ ,’ you drawled, gaze cool and brow cocking, once again.

I rolled my eyes. With suitcase in hand, I went about shutting off the switches that were on in my flat, including the hob and such, only to snort quietly when you muttered, ‘Would it really be such a shame if this place burned to the ground, I wonder?’

‘ _Snob_ ,’ I murmured, freezing only momentarily and wondering, ah, maybe that was not the correct thing to say to a client. With a small look your way as I crouched in front of the TV plug, I noted that you hardly paid attention to what I was saying, and instead stood by the front door with your umbrella once again thrown over your arm, and your phone in the other hand.

Deciding that there was nothing in my fridge that would go off (lack of funds meant lack of perishable foods, so my freezer was far more packed than my fridge), I turned to you with a nod over my flat and a, ‘Okay. I’m ready, sir’.

You looked up, and I was struck not for the first time by the impenetrableness of your stare. I wondered, briefly, if such a look helped you in your job. You had only skimmed over it, but I could only assume that being a terrifying individual came in handy. What hit me then, was that I was not even slightly frightened of you anymore. I would later learn that such a thing was ludicrous, and that others would look at me in mild discomfort for this reason.

You took my suitcase despite my weak protests, and my ears were warm all the way down to your car.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly catching up with the chapters I had already written! Thank you to those who have sent kudos already! Again, if you want to ask me anything, follow my Tumblr, mycrosoftholmes!

I consider that day, to be _Day One_.

The ride to yours was quiet, and you made it quite clear that you needed to be on your phone. You had one phone call, one that was purposefully vague on your half, and I think that was for my benefit. You were quite conscious that I should not know any national security matters.

It was ten minutes into the drive in the same sleek black car that I was becoming used to, that you placed your phone in the pocket of your black coat and pulled out a familiar object. ‘Inspector Lestrade wished for me to thank you for your compliance, Miss Carter. The Yard no longer needs this, but, of course, any odd text messages-’

‘Should be kept entirely secret. Of course, sir’. I bit back a small smile at your decidedly unimpressed look as you handed me my battered phone rather stiffly.

‘I have taken the liberty of inputting Inspector Lestrade’s personal number at his request, as well as the number for my Assistant, Anthea. It is unlikely that you will not be able to reach me on my personal number, but I thought it best’. You told me this with no ounce of this being a favour, but a simple matter that needed to be completed. ‘Very few people have it. Use it well’.

‘Oh. Thank you, sir. I…’ I struggled for a moment, phone in my lap and brow furrowed somewhat. ‘I won’t ask again why you’re doing this for me, considering your explanation is both confusing and uninformative at the same time. But…I can’t just _sit_ and do _nothing_ in your home. Both for my sanity, and…Well, I suppose it just seems rude, really’.

‘I have invited you’.

‘Still, I feel odd’.

‘To that, I say…stop’.

‘Stop _feeling odd_ , sir?’

‘Precisely’.

I stare. You turned to assess me with your ever-cool look. ‘You’re odd,’ I decided.

Your expression was unchanging. ‘I prefer to think of myself as _more evolved_ , Miss Carter’.

I laugh, you look. You constantly have the look of someone who is never really relaxed, and I wonder, for one moment, what you looked like at night. Did you sleep in the dark, stiff and like a modern-day Dracula? ‘You have an ensuite, as I am sure you remember from only last night. I would suggest…showering. You are still spattered with paint’.

I peered at my blue tinged nails and shrugged. ‘I suppose you’ll have to wait even longer for your painting now, sir-’

‘I will have someone gather your supplies for you, Miss Carter. I imagine that, to you, painting has a calming effect on what is likely a…worrying time’. The words slipped out of your mouth in a painful manner, as if you could not fathom doing such a thing to calm your mind. I wondered if your mind ever _really_ needed calming.

I considered you with a bemused look as the car turned a corner. ‘Is that what being stalked by a serial killer is, sir – _worrying_?’

Something like a typical smile twanged painfully across your features. ‘I would not know’.

The mention of the reason for my stay hung for a moment, and I thought over what to say with my lip caught between my teeth. ‘I have a bunch of questions I want to ask you. You don’t seem like the type to beat around the bush, sir. May I bombard you?’

You bestowed me with the look of mild surprise and curiosity that I was beginning to grow used to, and I wondered what it meant. With a slight incline of your head, you nodded for me to go on.

‘Will my name be kept out of the media, now that we know I am the _Question Mark Killers_ next wishful conquest?’ I grimaced. ‘Awful name, by the way’.

Your hands clenched easily around your umbrella, which sat between your legs and rested on the floor of the car. ‘It will, yes. You would be surprised at how many cases similar to this are kept safely out of the public eye, Miss Carter’. Your gaze was unwavering, and my questions appeared to have your entire attention. I tried not to trip over my words. ‘Additionally, you will find that the name for our killer derived from the question mark given at the end of his text message to you’.

‘Defensive,’ I murmured, with only a small teasing smile.

The look was back and, this time, you gave me a reason for it. ‘I expected a far more hysterical reaction from you, Miss Carter, for the past few days, I will admit’.

I hummed and glanced out of the window. London was grey that day. ‘Same here. I suppose you don’t know how you’re going to act in a situation like this until it happens to you. Apparently, my reaction is to act as if nothing is happening and sass one of my employers most important clients’.

‘ _Am_ I, now?’

‘Oh, as _if_ you did not know, sir’. I slipped my phone between my thighs and glanced distractedly out of the window once again. ‘I suppose it helps that I feel as if I am in good hands. You told me to trust you, so I will. You don’t seem like the type to lie about your own self-assurance in yourself and, if Inspector Lestrade’s reaction to my client relationship with you is anything to go by, you’re someone to be afraid of’.

A deducing look, and then, ‘You are surprised at your own ability to trust me so easily,’ you observed.

I nodded. ‘Yes, sir’.

You blinked once, slowly. ‘A good thing. To know that you do not trust others so readily’. You settled into your seat after a glance out of the window, apparently settling on the fact that there was still enough time to talk. ‘You have more questions?’

I nodded, taking your moment of distraction to eye the parts of your clothes that I was beginning to understand were staple. The pocket watch, the umbrella, the coat. Your three-piece suits I had found, over the months, changed from shades of grey to black. Your ginger hair and paleness had presented an odd idea to me then: I wondered if you had freckles. Momentarily aghast at the softness and silliness of my thoughts, I ploughed on as you turned to me, brow raised at my long pause. ‘I will be returning to work after this week. Therefore, my staying at your home seems redundant’.

You stared. Your eye twitched, as if genuine worry came at your next words. ‘You will _not_ be returning to work’.

It was the first real prickle of surprise and fear that I felt for you. The resoluteness of your statement mixed with the idea that you thought you could order me such a thing…It both pissed me off and motivated me to bite back. ‘That’s…that’s _ridiculous_ , sir. I have to _work_. I have a flat to pay for, as well as canvases to buy for commissioned paintings. I have a life. You are not the only one waiting for your painting-’

‘Yes, I am sure your clients cannot live without their paintings of _friends_ and _pets_ -’

‘Do _not_ mock it. I have to start _somewhere’_.

The grimace was back. You stared, displeased, before drawling as if forced. ‘Yes. I _apologise’_.

I hummed, still glaring at you and face a little warm. Your usual rudeness was funny, but _that_ had annoyed me. You merely stared back from across the car seat, before a smile of genuine amusement tugged at your mouth. You realised yourself quickly, and it was gone before I could really appreciate it.

‘This is the first time we have been aware of the killers next target,’ you began, looking at your lap for a moment as you clenched and unclenched your pale fingers around your umbrella. You continued to not look at me. ‘Therefore, we cannot take chances with allowing you to go into others homes so freely. You remember, I am sure, what happened to Mister DeLang?’

 _Dead_ , I thought. _Because of me._ ‘It was yesterday, sir. Shockingly enough, I do remember.

‘Then you understand the results of such a thing. We know nothing about this man’s appearance, nor his location. I am sure, once all fifty locations that were found from the scrambled messages are searched, we will be closer-’

‘And how do you expect to catch him if you tuck me away, sir?’ I was incredulous at the…the sheerness of your actions. This wasn’t _normal_ , surely? ‘He will find someone else, or he’ll _wait_. He waited three months to even touch me, God knows how long he was watching me before those flowers found their way into my building. I will _not_ put my life and job on hold because _Scotland Yard_ thinks-’ And then, another realisation flittered into my mind. ‘Christ, Scotland Yard or _whoever_ haven’t even suggested this, have they? Only Inspector Lestrade knows I’m staying with you - this is _you_ , isn’t it?’

The penetrating of your gaze made me hot and cold at the same time. Your voice was ice when you replied, ‘You’ll find, after some time, that everything is _me_ , Miss Carter’.

I should have been more concerned, I realise now, at how avidly you wanted me locked away in your London fortress.

-

You left for work with a promise of a fully stocked fridge, and an application of rules that still applied. The same rooms were still off limits, and the same respect was due for your home. We did not finish the conversation of my flat, nor my job, and I wondered if we ever would.

I was too _tired_.

I entered your house without you, as you informed me stiffly that you were to return to work, whatever that entailed. I was half-glad. You were pissing me off, and the focus of your stare was too much to be under, sometimes.

I found myself, once again, standing in your cold and dark home.

I called my mum before getting into the shower, my suitcase propped into the corner of the Guest Bedroom as I sat stiffly on the edge of the comfortable bed. She was pleased to hear that my phone was back to working condition and asked how work was going. I lied through my teeth, of course. I was aware, even then, that not telling anyone of my horrifying predicament meant that it seemed entirely less real.

She told me the flowers in the garden were doing well, and that she was thinking of getting a cat. Dad was against the idea, she informed me, but she could not give less of a shit. I enjoyed that about my mum. She surrounded herself with fairy lights and flowers and beautiful things but had the mouth of a sailor and the anger of some mythical creature. My father stood no chance in an argument against her. She asked if I was alright, and I realised that I must have sounded short and worried. I assured her I was and left the phone call with a promise to send her pictures of my recent paintings.

Before I hung up, she said, ‘Your aunt helped me make an Instagram so that I could see your paintings. You get better every day, darling’.

The guilt ate up at me.

Your shower was ridiculously lovely. The water pressure in my flat was beyond shit, and the small cubicle felt like showering in my University Halls all over again. Your shower, on the other hand, stood beside a clawed bathtub, with a large, round showerhead and expensive, designer shampoo and conditioner that I had never used before. I noted, with a funny kind of awareness that it was entirely weird and that I should _not_ be grateful, that the body wash sitting on the inside of the shower was the reasonably prized lemon scented one I tended to use.

This, then, only reminded me of the fact that your skills of deduction were so good, that you had known I would come with you to your home, before you even asked me. I had always been a little above average at reading people’s emotions, and it was...nice, to know that you could completely read me to filth. Again, I would later find that others did not share this sentiment and found it entirely unnerving that I thought this way.

The towels were, of course, softer than my sandpaper like ones. After changing in the silence of your home into sweatpants and a light top, I meandered downstairs with the intention of doing anything to distract my whirring mind-

_What did this man look like? Would he hurt someone else in my absence? How long had he watched me? Had he been in my building when I was home? How did he kill Mister DeLang? Had I ever seen him, looked at him, without realising? How would he kill me? Why did he hurt those other, poor girls, and why could they not have been as lucky as I was, to have been hired by Mycroft Holmes, a man who somehow helped me?_

-So, I settled on cleaning.

I cleaned with aggression and purpose, my phone tucked into the pocket of my bottoms and a playlist I saved for painting blaring for the device. I dusted the tops of the paintings that began our conversing, I swept the floor, I polished the dark wood, I even shined the bloody _doorknobs_ , Mycroft.

Such a thing allowed me to settle into your home in the way I knew it intimately; as a place to clean. From here, I did what I sometimes did in the houses I cleaned (such as the West’s, who lived just down the road from you, and who had a slight obsession with exotic plants), I snooped. Not invasively. You would notice such a thing, I’m sure. I merely padded into your sitting room after putting all of the cleaning supplies away, I little sweaty and dirty after cleaning (I’d have to shower again) and looked at the books I had studied once before.

For an indulgent time, I looked beyond the surface of your home, and saw it as _yours_.

Many of the books were worn and well-read, and it would not take someone like you to realise that they were likely very, very old. You had every classic, of course. Some in languages I could not even name. The armchair in front of a very high window (that, I am sure, allowed no one to see into your home) looked as if it was hardly sat in. Your home, though it mirrored you, seemed hardly used.

I stood out in it much like you had stood out in mine. You, in your finery amongst my old couch and shoddy tapestries. Me, in my grey sweatpants and thin top, amongst your art and sculptures and old, expensive wood.

I wandered into the dining room from the large hall, marvelling the high ceilings, the twisting wood, the pressed wallpaper. I thought of how we had sat on those chairs, and you had pressed burning liquid to my throbbing cheek (which had healed nicely overnight, now a thin cut and a light bruise). I thought of Inspector Lestrade calling you Iceman and wondered if you liked being called such a thing. I think, maybe, you did.

I marvelled at the fullness of your fridge, noting the expensive brands that I would never bother to touch. Your kitchen always bothered me, somehow. The layout was too large, the walls to bare, and the floor too cold. It didn’t feel like a kitchen, but rather some kind of dimly lit basement mimicking somewhere to cook.

I plucked my still loudly playing phone from my pocket and saw that the time was well past midday. So, with some inner turmoil-

_Would I overstep boundaries? Surely not, why else would he tell me the fridge was fully stocked. It would only be polite, to cook something for this man who had offered me protection…who I hardly knew…who likely knew some **insane** state secrets…who might even know the **Prime Minister** …_

-I decided to do the next thing that would distract me. Cook.

-

I showered again, knowing that the food was ready and that I could let it sit without worrying. That was one of the pros of soup. Additionally, I had made sure to make enough for you. I wasn’t used to cooking for others, so doing so felt…weird.

I changed into the pyjamas, not quite caring if it was only early evening. I had no idea when you usually returned from whatever it was you did, and I was intent upon spending the rest of the evening replying to any messages on my _Instagram_ and trying my hardest not to _Google_ any of the victims of my own stalker.

I had one message from Caleb.

Caleb: _Gary Oldman. Hot?_

Me _: I think so yeah_

Caleb: _Thought so. You good?_

Me: _I am amigo. You?_

Caleb: _Spiffing._

What I did not expect, as I wandered into your kitchen, wearing white socks and silk pyjamas that felt far too soft on my skin, and my hair still wet, was to see you standing in the middle of said kitchen, wearing only your waistcoat, white shirt, smart trousers and shoes.

I let out a rather embarrassing choking noise, my heart jumping to my throat and my phone fumbling between my hands before I hastily caught it. You turned to me, brow raised and expression rather unimpressed, as I gathered myself as best I could. ‘I did not expect to see you standing there, sir,’ I defended, head feeling light and mind whirring with _fucking Jesus I thought it might be **him**. _

‘I gathered that,’ you replied, drawl oh-so apparent and back, as always, straight and stiff. ‘You…cooked’. You looked around. ‘And cleaned’.

‘I quite literally had _nothing_ else to do,’ I replied, with a small air of defence. You surveyed with me that curiously surprised look that flittered barely noticeably across your face. ‘Do you mind? I don’t want to… _overstep_ , at all’.

You looked at me. ‘Do you not, Miss Carter?’

I quirked a smile, glad again that you read people so well. ‘It seemed like the polite thing to say, Mister Holmes’.

You stood there for a few seconds too long, before clearing your throat, swallowing tightly, and telling me, ‘I am not accustomed to this’.

I knew what you meant. I wasn’t either. More than often, I ate half-cold meals alone in my flat. I’m sure what you meant, though, was _: I do not usually have food and a person waiting for me when I get home, no matter if the person is a ward of some sort._ ‘People, sir?’ I smiled.

You looked. You quirked your mouth. You sighed. ‘Precisely’.

-

Apparently, I was the more human of the two of us, so I ushered you to sit down whilst I promised to serve food. You looked at me oddly, and disconcertingly I became aware that you knew this was not the kind of thing I usually did. I ignored this and ducked away from you as you made your way to the Dining Room.

Being around you…it made me depressingly aware that you were not the only one who surrounded yourself by so few people. You, though, did so by choice.

I knew where you kept your bowls, because cleaning the cupboards was something I had done before and noticed again the lack of bowls and plates and cutlery. I was quick about grabbing two bowls perfect for soup and scooping the liquid into them. You even had _soup spoons._ I wasn’t sure if there was a fancier way for me to present the meal so, with a shrug, I carried them very, _very_ carefully through your hulking house and into the room in which you waited.

You looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

‘Please,’ I begged, placing the meal in front of you. ‘Don’t make this weird. I already feel like I’m having an outer-body experience, Mister Holmes. I don’t usually find myself serving watercress soup to someone of your stature in their _London Manor House’_.

You looked at me, then down at the bowl in front of you. ‘Is that what this is? I did wonder why it was such a colour’.

I stared with bemusement as I settled into the seat two down from yours. You, of course, sat at the head of the table. I, to your right. ‘Most people say thank you,’ I replied easily.

‘Most _people_ do, yes’.

‘Are you insinuating you are not a _person_ , sir?’

‘One can only wish,’ you drawled back easily, that tight little smirk making its way to your face. After a moment of my unblinking stare and pleasant smile, your jaw twitched and you bit out, in false politeness, ‘ _Thank you’_. You stood, though, then. With the grace of only you, you made your way to a small cabinet in the corner of the room.

A _drinking_ cabinet. _God, you were posh._

‘I probably should have offered you a drink,’ I thought aloud, watching you with your back to me as you opened the cabinet and sorted through various bottles.

‘You are a guest,’ you replied. ‘The fact you have prepared a meal is more than enough’. My smile was hidden, and I watched the lines of your shoulders with a heat to my cheeks. This was likely the most I had spoken to someone in…a while. You, over the past few days, had become to know more about me than even my closest friends, no matter how few they were.

You poured me a dark whiskey, not bothering to ask me if I would like it. I did not bother to comment on how you knew I liked such a drink. I hadn’t had any in years, knowing that it was far too expensive to drink on my few nights in the pub, or to buy a bottle for home. You sat it in front of me, and when I asked what you were drinking, you replied, ‘Bourbon, of course’.

‘Of course,’ I muttered sarcastically, dripping my spoon into the soup.

It was nice, thank God. You said so, absently and as if it was the proper, polite thing to say to someone. I realised, as silence settled between us, that this was the first time we sat with each other in a manner of _socialising_ , not of serial killers, or stalkers, or my job.

‘You’re worse at this than I am,’ I observed, knowing now that directness was the best policy with you. You paused in your sipping of soup and cocked a brow, attention once again on me. ‘Talking,’ I summarised.

You bestowed me with a look that I now knew meant mocking curiosity. You had not taken offence. Somehow, I knew you would not. ‘This, coming from the twenty-six-year-old who spends many of her weekends painting, and who is in her pyjamas at-’ You glanced at the Grandfather Clock at the head of the room. ‘7:56 in the evening’.

I laughed. You blinked, apparently not knowing to look aghast or surprised at my amusement at your insults. ‘You’re not wrong there, sir’. I took another spoonful of the soup; glad the awkwardness was broken. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Honestly? Yes. _Surprisingly’_.

‘What a gentleman you are’. You hummed. You ate like a _posh boy._ Serviette and all. I glanced over you for a small moment, taking in what I assumed was your relaxed attire. I had never seen you in anything less than a full three-piece. ‘Did you and your brother deduce people in a similar manner?’ I asked, before I could really stop myself. ‘Would he have found the same things about me that you did?’ I was about to add the kindness; the _it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about him_ , but you cut me off before I could.

‘No,’ you answered, gaze flicking to meet mine. ‘I was better’.

It was fitting for you, to proclaim yourself better than someone, even if they were your dead brother. There were no falsities with you. I nodded, and once again ducked my head over the soup, almost finished with the meal.

‘We would often play games, as children and adults, of deducing people. Objects. Everything. I would, of course, always win’.

I blinked up at you, recovering from the surprising moment of sharing on your part, and smirked. ‘ _Of course,_ ’ I mimicked.

I insisted almost aggressively to put the dishes in the dishwasher, and you complied with an eyeroll and a, ‘Do what you _must_ , Miss Carter’, in that dramatic flair of yours. I did just that, wondering if there was anything I should say or ask.

You sat in the rarely used sitting chair in the living room, an archaic looking lamp on and a folder in your lap. I padded to the doorway, hesitant and feeling like a child, and stated, ‘I feel as if there is more I should be doing’. You looked up; expression severe in the light. ‘You say I am staying here because it is safe here, and unsafe _out there_. When will it be _safe_?’

‘When we find him, Miss Carter,’ you drawled, as if it was obvious.

I glared at your tone and took one step further into the room. It seemed so entirely different with you sitting before the large window, legs crossed and paperwork on your lap. ‘Plenty of men like him do not get caught, Mister Holmes’.

The folder snapped shut, and your attention was entirely on me. I felt as if, in that moment, that was not what I should have wanted, but I did. ‘I recognize your lack of understanding for circumstances such as this, Miss Carter. You do not appreciate them as I do; as I have done for _years_ through trial and error. Understand, though, this: you are different from those other, poor women, because _you_ have _my_ attention. A case such as this must only need a meagre _ten percent_ of my courtesy, and there will be a far better chance of it being solved’. You spoke in clipped sentences, your eyes like chips of eyes, your head dipped, your attention breath-taking. ‘This man is an _insect_ in comparison to what I have dealt with. He will be caught. You will, then, be free of my company. Now, will I be free of the _incessant_ questions on the matter?’

I stared. I stared and stared and stared as you flipped open the folder, until finally, in a voice that was far quieter than the one I was used to, I said. You were smart. You can’t have really thought that’s why I was asking the question over and over? ‘You moron,’ I snipped, still a little stung at your tone, despite my real intention with my words. You slowly looked up at me, and I think others might have melted on the spot at the look in yours. ‘This is about me _overthinking_ that I am imposing on _you_ , sir, not that I want to be _rid your company_. I’m both appalled and shocked at the fact that I might enjoy your company, if anything-’

My short joke was cut off by you, as you swallowed tightly and said, ‘You may sit in here until you wish to go to bed, Miss Carter. I know that you have been keen to study my books’.

The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. ‘Are you sure?’

You sent me a withering look.

My mouth slammed shut with audible click, and you went right back to looking at the folder in front of you. I stood for a moment, before wandering over and going straight to the copy of _The Odyssey_ , old and weathered and likely cost more than anything I owned put together. I paused, before making my way to a stiff sofa, and curled into the corner with the book in my lap, and my hesitant gaze watching you from the corner of my eye.

You never looked up at me, not even, after five minutes, when I asked, ‘What’s in that folder, sir?’

‘Yes, the likeliness of me revealing the secrets of the _British Government_ to you are truly _that_ likely, Miss Carter’.

I looked down at my book with a smile and a thrumming my chest that both worried and excited me.


	11. Chapter 11

On Day Two, I stood in your back garden. Considering you lived on a quiet, spacious street, your garden consisted of high, dark orange walls mottled with moss, a stone floor, and green patches of grass. Utter privacy, of course. There was no way anyone could see over the walls, and your house was built in such a way that it seemed to envelope the garden.

After last night, I felt as if something had clicked in my ease at staying at your home. I was too distracted by the whir of change to worry about what strings you were pulling to allow me to stay here. I only knew that I was safe, albeit a little annoyed at my lack of freedom, but relieved all the same.

_A case such as this must only need a meagre ten percent of my courtesy, and there will be a far better chance of it being solved._

I sipped my coffee and stood upon the ruddy stone steps, hip against the iron bannister, and sipped my coffee as I stared at the small garden of yours. I’m sure those words had meant exactly what I thought they did; that this was a stroll in park to you. A serial killer? _How mundane._ Your brother, Sherlock Holmes, had been involved with cases far bigger than this; with that horrible man… _Moriarty_. Even when all of the rumours flew around that the great Sherlock Holmes was a fake, no one could believe it.

Simply because he was _great_. He was the mind behind so, so many solved cases, or so that blog said. The blog that I had, since my initial read, peered back at, and found to be written by a friend of your deceased brother.

And you had stated, with an easy flair, that _you_ were the smart one.

The realisation made me never want to speak in your presence again. I must have seemed to entirely _simple_ to you.

It was the same with him…the killer. The _murderer_. You said so flippantly that he was an insect, but then why had he not been caught? Why had he killed so many poor women? It was not because of their minds, because of _our_ minds, but because of how we looked. Because of our penchant for art.

It was ten minutes later, with my coffee discarded on your counter, that I leant against the sink and _Googled_ him. It was not the first time. How could I not look at the murders of the man who was stalking me so closely?

_Alice Lang. Twenty-five-years-old. Suffocation. Sexually assaulted._

_Harriet Fairs. Twenty-six-years-old. Suffocation. Sexually assaulted._

I looked at them, on news articles dating back two years. There were newer ones now, since the police had strung the murders together and named them the doing of a serial killer. Brown hair, dark eyes, smiling faces. Alice was a Graphic Designer; Harriet was an abstract painter. My heart fluttered; my mouth felt dry.

_Vivienne Rennie. Twenty-eight-years-old. Strangulation. Sexually assaulted._

_Edith Arellano. Twenty-six-years-old. Throat slit. Sexually assaulted._

Vivienne had blue eyes, the only one of the women who did. She was an Architect. She had a three-year-old son. Edith was an Art teacher. She was married.

_Colleen Larsen. Twenty-six-years-old. Throat slit. Multiple stab wounds. Sexually assaulted._

_Phillipa Enrique. Twenty-five-years-old. Head injury. Multiple stab wounds. Sexually assaulted._

Colleen was a painter. Like me, she put most of her stuff online. She had a large online following. Her town had painted a mural in remembrance of her. She was married. Phillipa, when she was first killed, was considered the victim of a hate crime because of her sexuality. She had just turned twenty-five. She was an illustrator for children’s books.

_Kenzie Well. Twenty-seven-years-old. Suffocation. Sexually assaulted._

_Lilian Down. Twenty-six-years-old. Fatal stab wound. Sexually assaulted._

Kenzie and Lilian were both painters, both married, both had young daughters. Kenzie painted in her free time and owned a local grocery shop with her husband. Lilian was an ex-addict and used painting in a rehabilitation programme to help her with her addictions.

I imagined my face amongst the lot, had you and Inspector Lestrade not intervened. That night, the night he had grabbed me from behind, that could have been it.

I could have been number nine.

I wiped my watering eyes and locked my phone, my throat tight and my heart beating a loud hum in my ears. All of those poor, poor women were dead. Gone. All because of pale skin, dark hair, and a love for art.

‘Miss Carter?’

I jumped, a tumble of curses and startled noises jumbling out of my mouth in one, short sentence. When I whirled around, my phone clattering to the marble counter, I saw Anthea standing here, her plucked brow cocked and her mouth puckered into a look of mild distaste.

‘Anthea,’ I gasped, glad that I remembered her name. ‘How long have you been _standing_ there?’

Her gaze flicked briefly up and down my still pyjama clad form, before her dark eyes flicked back up to meet mine. ‘Not long,’ she assured, with an easy, practiced smile. She really was very pretty. I wondered if that’s why you hired her-

_Or she happens to be very good at her job, Miss Sexist Asshole. Jesus, get a **grip**._

-She brushed her hair over her shoulder, her Blackberry poised in her other hand. ‘Your Art supplies from your flat are in the foyer-’

‘ _Oh_ -’

‘I assume you will have no issue with moving them yourself-’

‘I think I’ll manage, thanks-’

‘Good. I need to get going’. She paused, phone halfway to her ear, and added, ‘I would suggest not wearing pyjamas when Mister Holmes returns, Miss Carter-’

‘Ophelia,’ I grouched, face warming up.

‘Yes,’ she smiled, as if not listening to me at all. ‘Well. Goodbye’.

-

I felt like I would never know how to fully express my thanks to you. I almost dreaded you returning home, because so far, my gratitude had appeared in bumbling words that you cast aside with a flip of your hands.

Not only had you had my canvas and easel delivered, but my oil paints. And _more_. Four more canvases, all of which I would have had to wait at least another month to buy. More oil paints, a brand that I knew of and would never think to buy. Long handled brushes new in the packet, perfect for oil painting. Brush cleaners. A new, wooden palette. Sketch pads. Water colour paints. Pencils. Coloured and grey.

I was practically pink with excitement as I stood in your foyer, half concerned at my own hearing that I had not heard them be delivered.

It took two trips to bundle everything into the Guest Bedroom, and by then I was practically _bouncing._ I hadn’t been able to play with such an array of art supplies since University. I practically broke my wrist in my hurry to set up my easel, my worn and lovely easel (something I am glad you did not replace) and face it toward the high window of the Guest Bedroom. I could hardly see out of it because of the height of the wall, but the grey London sky was just the light I needed.

I did not carry on with your painting. I started a new one.

I changed out of the silk pyjamas and into my shorts and shirt, the ones I usually painted in. Your house had a constant chill to it, I but I hardly noticed in that moment.

I painted eyes. _My_ eyes. _Their_ eyes. Dark eyes with dark lashes, blurred and watery and conveying a single emotion I could not name. _Fear? Love? Happiness? Anger?_ I didn’t think as my wrist moved; the palette balanced on my crossed legs as I sat upon the dressing table stool that I had dragged over to the window. The pupils of the eyes were pricks, the browns and dark greens creating a haze of colour, the lashes long and whipping like string across the canvas.

I didn’t pause. My stomach rumbled, my eyes grew dry, the sun moved across the great paned window, and I did not move.

_Alice, Harriet, Vivienne, Edith, Colleen, Phillipa, Kenzie, Lilian._

I _could not_ move. The moment I started to wander about him, about whether or not he knew where I was, if he had been near my flat, and flicked my phone open and played the Mozart playlist that I had followed on _Spotify_.

I painted the corners of the eyes, where wetness gathered. I painted the shine of pupils. I painted the dark undereye; the expression of tiredness. Slowly, the emotion I could not find found its way into the eyes, and gulped and leaned forward, hand never stopping-

 _Power. Righteousness._ Wide-eyed staring from dark eyes. There was no fear or happiness in the eyes, and only a tinge of anger. The eyes spoke of an aggression that came only with a thirst for justice, rightness, _good_ -

A floorboard squeaked, and I quite literally almost fell off of my stool.

When I turned, you were there, decked in a grey three-piece and staring at me. I blinked into reality, head a little fuzzy and mouth more than a little dry. With a startled look over my shoulder to the window, I saw that it was pitch black outside.

I’d lost _hours_.

There was a kind of static quietness between us, and I felt suddenly as if I had been doing something I should not have. You breathed once, sharply, your head tilting back as you considered me over the expanse of your long nose. You looked at me, perhaps longer than acceptable, and I breathed quietly under your gaze.

And then, with a twitch to your jaw, you said, ‘You have paint on your nose, Miss Carter’.

And I smiled, small and relieved and so glad that the horrible feelings from earlier had left with my hand to a canvas. ‘I think I have paint all over me, Mister Holmes’.

You looked, then, past me, to the creation I spent hours pouring my anxiety and guilt and anger into, and your gaze fluttered somewhat. With a brief narrowing of your eyes, you nodded. ‘Your talent is obvious. I am pleased to see my gifts were not wasted’.

 _That’s_ what had me scrambling out of my chair, completely forgetting that this was the second time you had seen me in such revealing, frumpy and frankly dirty clothes. ‘Sir-’ You looked mildly alarmed at my sudden animation. ‘I can’t thank you enough. This must have cost…I don’t even know how much’. I stood in front of you, stained hands clasped and chill of your house finding my skin. ‘That was very _kind_ of you, sir. _Thank you’_.

I grinned when you grimaced. ‘Good Lord,’ you muttered. ‘You know exactly that is not the way to thank me, Miss Carter’.

My grin grew wider. ‘What? Talking about how _kind_ and _gracious_ and _nice_ you are, you mean, sir?’

You hummed in sharp disapproval and ordered me to shower before dinner.

-

You had brought home dinner than day. You said it was from a restaurant near where you worked. You had your driver pick it up for you.

As I tucked in, hair wet and decked in leggings and a jumper, you had placed your napkin across your lap and looked at me sharply when I said, ‘Is there any leads?’

You seemed as if you might make fun of my choice of phrase but thought against it. Instead, you replied, ‘Inspector Lestrade has informed me that it is likely a sibling relationship that draws our killer to the women he murders’.

_Alice, Harriet, Vivienne, Edith, Colleen, Phillipa, Kenzie, Lilian._

I frowned and chewed on the linguine with samphire and prawns you had brought me (and tried very hard not to moan at the taste). ‘He sexually assaulted all of them,’ I stated.

You hummed and raised your brow, before poking your food with your fork. Your gaze did not find mine. ‘Indeed’.

-

Day Three follows much the same as Day Two. I spent the entire day flitting between adding small details to my painting and studying the individual cases of the eight women.

I don’t know why I thought I could notice something that the police had not.

That day, as the sky darkened, I slipped on a loose, white dress that I sometimes lounged around my flat in and poked away at your books as I waited for you to return home with the promise of dinner.

When you did, I saw you blush for the first time.

Now, I am not entirely convinced it had anything to do with the dress, but that might just be my own self-doubt. It was a pretty dress. Simple, loose, with thin straps and a hole on the hem. I had gotten it a few years ago in Tenerife. The only time you had seen me in anything other than casual clothes and my _Maid to Clean_ uniform was that art night, months ago.

As I met you in the foyer, flummoxed by the fact that I felt for just a small moment like a small housewife with a small life, you had turned toward me and _stalled._

You.

 _You_ stalled.

You had a paper bag in one hand, and your briefcase in the other. Your shoes clacked and your face remained a mean mask, even when you thought no one was looking. You turned, saw me waiting with a book balanced in my hand, and you paused, tinged pink on the neck, and _stalled_.

I cannot get over saying it. You would deny it if I ever mentioned it you, I’m sure.

‘Hello, sir,’ I smiled, blinking once and you were back to normal. I padded barefoot toward you, hands outstretched to take the bag of food, and you had handed it to be without fault. I am not so untruthful that I won’t admit to wanting to look a _little_ nice that evening, you know. I’m sure you read it in the fact that I was wearing a dress, my hair was loose, and my smile was bright.

Maybe you thought I was about to murder you.

‘Hello, Miss Carter,’ you returned, robotic.

It was becoming a weird habit after three days, for you and me to have a quick dinner in the Dining Room. I wondered if you ate alone every night. I wondered if you ever remembered to eat at all, had you not had to feed me.

I was like a pet; waiting at home for you.

I even missed _work_.

‘You seem less talkative than usual, sir. _That’s_ saying something’. You assessed with me a cool look as I sidled up beside you, forks in hand as you watched me. You were stiff all over, like drying cement.

‘It would appear,’ you began, watching me unload the boxes of food. They came in actual, ceramic bowls. How posh _was_ this restaurant? You coughed. ‘That your friend, Caleb Montague, was reported missing yesterday evening’.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely feedback!

‘You were nervous to tell me’.

My voice sounded crackling and monotone to my ears. You looked up, your fingers steepled together and your elbows on your knees, to dart a penetrating stare at me. I sat on the stiff sofa, and you in the armchair. Your jaw twitched. Emotion? _You_? ‘What of it, Miss Carter?’

In any other situation, I might have smiled at the defence in your tone. I shook my head slowly, gaze trained on the carpet. It was clean. I had cleaned it the other day. ‘Just an observation’. I blinked, slowly and with a deep breath. ‘Am I not allowed to make those, sir?’

Your stared. I looked up, catching said stare, and continued to swallow my yelling, screaming need to run out of your front door and into the quiet Kensington streets. ‘Does Inspector Lestrade thinks he is doing this because I’m not… _about_ , anymore?’

‘Yes’. A pause. You assessed me.

I uncurled my legs from beneath me. The food still sat in the kitchen, boxed up and making the house smell of tomatoes and oregano. The smell did not fit with your home. ‘If you put me back in my flat, if I go home, it could draw him out…he could let Caleb _go_ -’

‘ _No_ -’

The anger curls. ‘He’s my _friend_!’

‘A weakness you allowed on your own’. You bestowed me with this flaring nostril, wide-eyed look. The one that could silence, I’m sure, even the worst world leaders. ‘And if this is not our murderers’ work? If this is unassumingly an instance of this Caleb drunkenly losing himself? You would be uselessly putting yourself in peril, Miss Carter-’

I huffed. ‘Because that’s what we’re like, isn’t it? Silly little people who only do silly little things’.

‘ _Your_ words, Miss Carter,’ you retorted, calm and collected once again. You straightened and tugged at the cuffs of your suit jacket, standing before me in the darkness of your sitting room. You looked as if you might be gathering yourself from the brink of an _outburst_ , God forbid.

‘I don’t know why I am even _asking_ you,’ I returned, standing now also. I straightened up and tugged at the hem of my dress, fingers nervous and stomach twisting. _Caleb. Gone._ ‘I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done for me, sir, but if this is some kind of _message_ from…from _him_ , then-’

‘Then you will _not_ respond!’ _Your voice was ice._

‘I seem to have forgotten the part of my contract with _Maid to Clean_ that stated I was to allow our clients to control every aspect of my _life_!’ _And mine was fire._

You tilted your head, a nasty look upon your face, all tight mouth and ice eyes, and responded sharply, ‘Such a contract no longer _exists_ , Miss Carter’.

A beat. It took a moment for your words to register.

‘…You _quit_ my _job_?’

There was no apology on your face. Of course, there wasn’t. Your admittance had not been an accident, but a _fact;_ one of which you saw no issue with. You sniffed disdainfully. ‘I saw no point in the continuation of your employment’.

I gaped. ‘Um... _rent_?’

You sneered. ‘You will _paint_. My good word is all you need to begin your career’.

My mind was whirring. We were getting off track. ‘That’s not…! Caleb is missing - my _friend_. It’s _obvious_ who has done this! I can’t…sit here, in your home, whilst anything could be happening to him-’

‘You _can_ and you _will_ because it is what I _say_ should happen!’

‘I am not yours to boss _around-_ ’

_‘Yes, you are!’_

Your voice echoed for a moment in the dark, coldness of your house. Outside, far away, a car drove past. I ogled at you, watching for the first time a real flicker of surprise settle across your features, not the flitting astonishment I had seen before at my expense. In that moment, you appeared genuinely stumped at your own twisted, almost _comical_ words.

My belly dropped at the sound of your voice, which had been low and angry and _loud._ I was both horrified in anger and swelling with something… _else_. Something I had never encountered before.

You stood straight, I swallowed tightly. ‘I am going to call Inspector Lestrade,’ I bit out. You blinked. Hard. ‘ _Alone’_.

-

‘Yeah. No, of course, Miss Carter,’ Lestrade spoke, London accent a welcome to the drawling of your voice I had known for the past few days. ‘We’ll tell you if we hear _anything_. See, best we can tell, your friend went missing after his visit to the Tate Modern’.

‘That makes sense,’ I murmured. ‘He goes there enough’.

_Look at this, Phee. A bunch of tampons shoved into a frame. **You** could do that._

I shifted on the bed, head bowed low and phone held closely to my ear. I had heard no movement from downstairs.

Inspector Lestrade seemed to take a sip of something. Probably coffee. ‘CCTV doesn’t show much. Thing is, it actually _cuts out_ for a good thirty seconds before coming back on-’

‘Mister Holmes _did_ say the message sent to me was difficult to track. Do you reckon he’s some kind of hacker, sir?’ I worried I sounded like an utter idiot. I did _not_ know the lingo for such a thing.

Lestrade coughed, muttered something to someone, and returned with a, ‘Sorry. We’ve got a few ideas bouncing around like that. It’s giving us a pretty good profile, too-’

‘Sir,’ I cut him off, desperate to ask him what you had so obviously denied me. ‘If I went out - if I let myself be seen. Maybe he would let Caleb _go_?’

‘No. Look, best thing for you to do is stay with Mister H- _exactly_ where you are, alright?’ His voice was kind. Honest. I really liked him in that moment, you know. ‘You’re safe there. As much as the whole thing gives me a headache to think about, that’s all that matters, right?’

I smiled, deflated. ‘Right’.

A pause. ‘We’ve got News outlets sending out pictures of your guy. His family has been alerted. People are looking, Ophelia’. The use of my name, I’ll admit, was calming. I was getting sick of _Miss Carter._ ‘We’ll get the bastard’.

I smiled, hung up, and buried my face in my hands.

I did the only thing I could think of, then.

I called my mum.

-

That night, on the brink of Day Four, I dreamt of you.

Firstly, I dreamt of brown eyes, their eyes, my eyes, and the smell of wet cigarettes and hands grabbing me in the dark. I’ve never been very good at remembering my dreams, but I do know that it faded into something else, then.

Something soft. Something that smelt of expensive cologne. Something that made me ache, and burn, and flit in and out of sleep with my thighs pressed together and my toes curling.

_‘I am not yours to boss around-’_

_‘Yes, you are!’_

_Yours, yours, yours_ , I thought, as blue eyes blew dark above me, and you settled between my legs and, yes, I knew it was a dream, but it had been a _while_ , okay? You were a half-mass, you hardly looked like you, and yet I knew who the person pressing kisses to my neck was.

I awoke with hot skin and a burning need for coffee.

My silk pyjamas smelt like fresh linen as a crawled out of bed, into the coolness of the bedroom that was filtered with grey-blue early morning light. I stood, for a moment, in the dark room, and rubbed my face with both of my hands, slightly mortified and slightly excited at the prospect of having a bloody _sex dream_ about you.

The memories came crashing down, then, and had it in myself to only be guilty and mortified.

Caleb was missing.

I padded down into your silent home barefoot. There was no sign of you, and I wondered what you had done after our little spat last night. Bitterly, I reminded myself that professionalism was out of the window. I was no longer your employer, and you were no longer my client. I could say what I wanted without worry of the repercussions.

Because you had quit my job _for me._

Do you want to know what bothered me the most about the whole ordeal? You probably knew, knowing you. The argument we’d had alone would have shown you exactly what I did not want you to see; that I _liked_ you interfering with my life.

Such a thing was not me, and that was why I was so angry. I mean, I was entirely pissed that you had not warned me of your meddlesome capabilities, but mostly…I was annoyed at myself. I had always prided myself on being the girl who needed no one. The one who could survive off of painting, and cheap food, and so few friends, despite her parents worry upon her moving to the big bad city of London. I wanted to be _that girl._

I was, and still am, but it disappointed me how desperately I wanted you there, moving my life around like pieces on a chess board. Your overall want to control, I knew even then, meant something other than power.

That excited me.

I made the coffee in your old-school coffee maker, before padding back up your wooden stairs with the hot mug steaming between my palms. I knew which door was yours, and I was overly cautious upon stepping onto the landing. Your bedroom, the unknown, was at the complete other end of your spacious home. It was to the left of the stairs and around a corner, near the Office and two other locked rooms.

I ignored my quiet thoughts on whether you were home at all, before padding my way back into the Guest Bedroom.

It was almost like some kind of doomed destiny, the fact that my phone chimed the moment the door closed softly behind me.

I know you don’t believe in that kind of thing. I know you don’t believe in coincidences or anything of the sort, _because when is the universe oh-so lazy?_ Yet there my phone lay, screen lighting up in the darkness, and even from my viewpoint at the door I could see the small black letters in the grey box stating: _MESSAGE FROM UNKOWN._

And, like a moth to a flame, I went.

I can still feel the acrid, ghastly burn of the coffee on my skin, even now. I can feel the clasp in my heart as I thumbed open that message, my heart in my throat and my fingers clenched around the coffee mug. I can still taste the shock on my tongue, feel the catching of my breath, hear the dull thud of the mug landing on the carpeted floor.

It was Caleb.

My Caleb. The one I felt I had so neglected. The one who I could look at, sometimes, and see the teenager from High School, smile toothy and folded piece of paper flicking its way over to me.

This scene was entirely different in the worst of ways.

He was there, in a photo speckled with white dots of darkness and half-okay quality snapshot, his nose uneven and bent, his lips bloody, and his eyes swollen shut. Behind him, I could see a very familiar view of tapestries that I had ordered from Amazon.

With this picture, came a blue bubble of writing, with the words:

_Come out, come out, wherever you are, Olivia. Time to come home. Tell anyone, and he dies._

-

I thought only of you as a scrambled into jeans a shirt, far too aware of the fact _you would try and stop me._ If you were in your home or not, I highly doubted that you did not have people watching your Kensington manor closely.

I would have to be fast and sneaky.

I pushed down my fear, my sickness, my complete terror as far as it would go, knowing exactly what the message had meant. _Come home, or I will kill him. Let me kill you, or your friend will die._

I was not entirely thinking of the end result of me doing as I was told, to be honest. I didn’t think of death, I only thought of helping Caleb.

I wished I had left earlier, as I had wanted to.

I am sure I looked beyond a chaotic fusion that morning, as I tripped down the stairs as quietly as I could, my eyes stinging, and out into the morning air of your large driveway. I had already thought of the best mode of transport: the tube. No to Uber, as a car could be pulled over. I could easily hide myself on the tube that morning, so full it would be of commuters.

The route was melded into the back of my mind after so many weeks and months of working for you. High Street Kensington to Victoria, then Victoria to Stockwell, then Stockwell to Clapham North. From there, it was only a five-minute walk to my apartment.

I half-jogged to the Underground Station, ignoring the odd looks I gathered as I tapped my way through the ticket barrier, pushing myself into the herds of working men and women of the early morning. I felt _sick, ill, awful_ , as I bundled onto tube after tube, my head ducked and my eyes staring only at my feet.

I balanced my phone in my hands and thought about messaging him. _The killer._ I thought about asking him to not hurt Caleb, that I was on my way…Then again, I thought maybe any wrong word would anger him. I couldn’t risk him hurting my friend-

_Because of me. Because of me. Because of me._

I wondered if anyone was trying to call me. The killer. Lestrade. You. I had no signal on the Underground, and for that I was a little grateful. I did not want anyone shaking my surge of adrenaline.

I tripped up the elevator of Clapham Underground Station, the coffee I had half drank earlier swirling uneasily in my stomach. My flat - how had he so easily got in there with Caleb? Had he done so before - had I ever truly been alone in my own home?

I woman shouted as I pushed past her.

A couple stared in minor alarm at me.

I wondered if they were watching me; _your people._ I thought that as I darted across the road, my baggy jumper slipping off one shoulder, my loosely tied shoelace coming half undone, and that it when my phone vibrated, with the initials _MH_ blaring to life on the screen. You _had_ been trying to call me, then.

_(Were you watching me then, on the other side of every CCTV camera down the busy street?)_

I reached the pavement with a stumble, knowing that I was only a few minutes away, now. I was close, so close, and you knew I was gone, and if he _knew_ that, he would hurt Caleb. I didn’t think then that this man had any idea who I was involved with and who was aiding me, and I now know that he definitely did not.

 _Come out, come out, wherever you are, Olivia._ Your home was such a fortress, that my stalker could not find me. Not surprising.

Still, I could not help but panic. What if he saw I was not alone? What if he was watching via CCTV, too? I hoped you wouldn’t drive up beside me in that sleek black car; that the police would not come whizzing around the corner-

It was why I did not answer your call.

I should have.

I made it to my flat with my chest aching from breathlessness and my elbows pushing past late stragglers to work. The sun shone weakly up above, and I realised, with a deepening kind of horror, that I did not have my keys.

_I could not get in._

I was about to do it, then. To scream at the building, to bash my fists against the front door, to beg and beg and beg that _he_ did not hurt Caleb.

It was then that he grabbed me from behind, a putrid taste invaded my senses, and I was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

‘I’ve _missed_ you’.

He is earnest in the worst of ways; his voice dripping with devotion and emotion. I look at him blearily, my neck cocked at an awkward angle due to the wall that I am propped against, my legs splayed in front of me.

He sits between them, on his haunches, one hand each on both of my calves. His thumbs rub circles, and I lurch, realisation and horror dawning on me as I wake up more, my yell echoing, my eyes darting-

A first curls into my hair and I am invaded with the smell of damp cigarettes and weed, and then there is a blinding flash of pain. My yell comes out strangles as the fingers relax in my hair, brushing over the throbbing and tender place where he had thrust my head against the concrete wall.

I blinked at him, vision blurry and groan broken, suddenly realising with a grogginess that he had me exactly where he wanted me, and I am quite sure he knew that. It was why I was not entirely surprised when I awoke in that dingy, foul smelling room. The faith that I had upon waking up that I could overpower him quickly died.

The fact that he had been able to take me at all did not bode well.

He stroked my head as leant against the wall, head lolling back and forth as tears of pain pricked at my closed eyes. Whatever he had drugged me with was still in my system, and on top of the hard hit…I felt _sick_. Carefully, I felt him extract himself from me. ‘You sleep so beautifully, Olivia’.

His voice had been normal. I still remember it now, but only because of the context of it. If I had heard it in the street, or in a shop, I would not remember it. It was Southern, with a hint of Essex, and distinctly male.

I blinked blearily up at the brightly lit room.

He was grubby looking; attractive in an unshaven, unwashed manner, and smelt of old, wet cigarettes. He stood against the door now, arms pressed behind his back, and brown eyes focused on me. He was young, maybe in his thirties, and was wearing a stained hoody and ripped blue jeans.

‘Ophelia,’ I corrected, voice cracking, and palms pressed against the gritty, wet floor. My mouth tasted vile, and I wondered if I had thrown up in my drug induced sleep.

There were no windows in the small room, only concrete walls and floors. The door he stood against would not close fully, even with his weight pressed against it, and I heard no sound of cars or outside life. I wondered if we were underground.

He shook his head, watching me with a kind of revere. ‘Olivia,’ he told me, in the simplest of terms. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his skin sallow. He scared me, just from looking at him, let alone the fact that he had already hurt me so violently. ‘My Olivia, back to me. I _missed_ you’.

The thing is, it doesn’t take a genius or a detective to work out the context of situations like this, and maybe it was panic and adrenaline that made me think quickly. I’d seen a dozen crime shows and movies that had this theme. Kidnapper looks for people who appear similar to someone they lost. You and I and Lestrade had already discussed this possibility, and here it was, confirmed. His calling me Olivia was not a mistake of my name.

All of the curvaceous, dark haired artists before me had the same thing in common, then: we looked like _Olivia_. I wondered if it was a sibling after all.

I nodded, wary of not complying with him. ‘Okay,’ I croaked, swallowing tightly and desperate to act normal. My panic might make him _flip_. ‘I’m Olivia’.

My head throbbed and my stomach lurched.

He moved, back crouched and curly hair greasy, and I _knew_ guys like him. There were the oddballs in school, who folded long limbs upon themselves and had a kind of perverted air that lingered around them like a bad smell. With lithe movements, he was suddenly crouching in front of me again, stench invading my senses, and cupping my cold cheek with clammy hands. His teeth were yellowing, and his eyes were watering. _‘Yeah?’_ He had a desperation in his voice, and his foul breath nearly had me heaving.

I nodded, not trusting myself to not burst into frightened tears.

His mouth was suddenly on my cheek, my neck, and his putrid hair brushed against my nose. His mouth was cold and unwelcoming, stiff and wet against my skin, and my body felt frozen in fright at the feel of it.

_He raped and killed all of his victims._

He was not especially built. Tall and wiry. I wondered if I could push him, straddle him, maybe even find something to knock him out with.

‘I want to-’ I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to not push away from his nuzzling. I really thought I might throw up on his greasy haired head. ‘I want to know your name. So, I-I know what to call you’. My eyes pricked.

He nodded against my throat, a hum vibrating there. My eyes swelled with tears, and I wondered if I could let him do it, if it came to it. Let him do what he wanted so that I could weaken him; get him at his most vulnerable. Fear swelled within me at the thought.

‘You’re so confused, Olive,’ he muttered, breath against the dip in my throat. ‘ _Andrew_ , remember? Your _twin’_

My stomach _heaved_.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, before pulling away quickly, and his pupils were blown wide when he looked at me, face level with mine. I forced a spasm of a smile, my cheeks wet, and nodded. ‘I am confused,’ I bit out, voice small. ‘I just want to-to know where my friend is, too-’

His face darkened. ‘ _Why_?’

I remember thinking of crime docs, of stories of brave survivors who had made it out of the situations like this. _Be the manipulator._ ‘Because I want to-to make sure he’s _okay_ …it-it might draw attention to _you_ if he isn’t, Andy’.

I took a dive, with that nickname, and it _worked_. He had called me _Olive,_ therefore I suspected Andy might be a soft spot for him.

_What the hell had happened to the real Olivia?_

Andrew had furrowed his brow and looked momentarily guilty, and my heart dropped. Everything narrowed down to a blur of noise, of adrenaline, and of his muffled words. ‘…Oh. I’m _sorry_ , Olive. I thought he was getting too close to-to you, and you know how I _get_. You were hiding and I thought it was with _him_ , so I wanted to know where you were, and he wouldn’t tell me, so I-I wanted to make you come to _me_. He made me so _angry,_ O’. His voice broke. I looked down at him, crouched near my chest, his eyes filling with tears. My jaw locked. My breath came in short bursts. ‘He just made me so mad-’ He ducked his head to me, lip wobbling, nose touching mine. ‘And I’d…I’d gone to much trouble to make sure no one could see’. He waved his hands up, as if to imaginary CCTV cameras. ‘I’m sorry, Olive-’

I didn’t think when I leant back sharply and butted my head forward with as much might as I could into his. I saw a moment, a moment of softness in his gaze and how close he was to me and took a chance. I gasped at the contact, my forehead exploding in pain, but wasted no time in shoving him away with both hands against his side, my knees coming up to boot him either further out of my path.

Andrew scrambled to the floor, a low yell of pain coming from him, and I had barely made it into what appeared to be a long, dark hallway with white pipes around it when he I felt his arms around my waist, yanking me back as hard as he could.

‘ _Olivia_ -!’

His voice cracked like he was crying, and I gripped the doorway with aching fingers that split under the wood. It was with a sharp yell as I pulled again him that I spotted a bloody, brown strip of blood caked where white paint was chipping away beneath my fingers. It was the strings of long, brown hair that had me kicking back against him more furiously, my fingers cutting against the doorway edge as I yelled and yelled and yelled-

‘Get. The fuck. _Off of me!’_

I landed on the floor with him scrambling up my back - _too close, too cold, too unwelcome_ \- and something sharp pressed against the rise of my top as he did so. I recognised the feel of a blade and looked back to find it blunt and rusted with something dark and brown. He landed atop me with a heaviness I wouldn’t have expected, his knees pinning against my thighs and his hand grabbing my shoulder and pushing me over, slamming me into the _ground_ -

I saw the knife, then. Lingering between my breasts and his face, and I, for no better world, went entirely _feral_.

I was not dying here. Not when I had stupidly not told you what was happening. Not when he had…had killed Caleb so horribly, _because of me._

I’m not entirely sure how I ended up blinding him in the right eye. It was a sudden, scrambling panic. Weeks’ worth of denial at the fact this broken, horrible man before me wanted to hurt me; _had_ hurt others and killed, killed, killed. The arrogance of him, the fact that so many poor women had died at his hand…it suddenly overwhelmed me. I felt like an _animal_.

All I know is that one second he was above me, blunt knife swiping against my collarbone and his teeth bared, followed by a sharp and long sting, and then my right hand was pushing his snarling, red face from mine, and my index and middle finger were pushing hard against something soft, wet and squishy.

He _screamed_.

I look back now and realise, as I clambered to my feet and took off on a sharp run down the right of the narrow, low-ceiling hallway, that I should have grabbed the knife. I would have screamed at the person in the movie to always, _always_ grab the weapon.

Where he had taken me, there were no windows. Only pipes, low walls, and heavy looking doors. It reminded me of a submarine. My head throbbed as I stumbled, my heart hammering and my adrenaline pumping, and I remember thinking, praying, that you would find me.

You might not, I knew. All the faith I had, I had to put in myself.

_‘OLIVIA!’_

His scream was a screech, animal and horrible and I knew, without a doubt, he would kill me if he got me. I wondered if that was why he had killed the others. None of us could bare to be this Olivia; our inner human told us to _run run run_ , and he did not like that.

I wondered if he had killed the real Olivia, too. His sister. His _twin_.

The sob broke free of me as I turned, finding myself suddenly facing a battered looking metal staircase with a glinting door at the top. _Light_ , I thought. _Daylight_. I heard his footsteps stampeding, and it was only when I spied out a sign for tube maintenance that I realised, fuck, he had taken me to the London Underground.

A literal cavernous maze.

 _I am still in London,_ I remember thinking, and it was as I took that first step toward the likely locked door, that he had swiped at me. The sting was numb in my panic, and I turned blindly, clawing and hurting and _screaming_ at him, and he tugged and breathed and told me to _be still_ and _be a good girl, Olivia._ I know you do not enjoy hearing this, but it is what happened.

The way he touched me, attempting to rip at my clothing, it was obvious what he wanted to do to me on that floor, in that underground Hell. He grabbed me by the hair, his weight atop me, and slammed by head so hard into the ground that I saw, for an almost funny moment, _stars_.

He did it again, I knew that if he did it once more, I would be gone. I would be entirely his to devastate and murder.

I did the only thing I could think of.

I kissed him. My mouth pressed into a thin line, my hands scrambling to clasp at his jumper-

The moment he stilled was all I needed. A split second, maybe less, and it allowed me to twist my fingers into his hair and ram my thumb into the swollen and bloody socket that resembled a mangled wound more than an eye. Like the painter I was, _I perfected my work._

I enjoyed his scream this time. Does that make me _terrible_? My head thrummed and my vision blurred, and I choked on my breath as I heaved him away from me, my arms like jelly and my body stinging. I had never fainted, but I knew the sluggishness of my limbs could only mean something terrible.

I could not get near enough to his staggering form as he rose, hands clawing at his face, to feel for any kind of key in his pocket. Instead, I scrambled backwards for the stairs once again, noting in my panicked haze as I looked over my shoulder, bum hefting up the steps, that there was no hole where a key could go in the large metal door. Perhaps there was a numbered lock on the other side, I thought, as he clambered up the steps on my hands and knees, vision blurring and-

‘OLIVI-!’

I turned, back pressing to the stairs, and roughly stuck my foot out, right where his face was, my throat hoarse, my force kicking him with all the strength that I had left-

‘ _My name is OPHELIA’_.

And I kicked, kicked as hard as I could with my palms against the cold stairs and my whirring, stirring brain only half aware of the sudden clattering behind me as he fell, fell, fell, face mangled and mouth open, and then there was light flooding the scene before me, bright and white and-

_‘Carter!’_


	14. Chapter 14

Inspector Lestrade’s face suddenly came screaming into clarity.

Yet, I had only had eyes for _him_ , for _Andrew_ , his bloody and oddly angled body lying at the bottom of the staircase. He stared at me, with just one eye, and I became suddenly loosely aware of people pushing past me on the stairs, of Inspector Lestrade crouching on the step below me, his dark eyes wide and his mouth moving quickly-

Lestrade looked over my head to where the sudden rush of cold air was coming from. ‘-Gone into shock. Somebody get me a _bloody_ blanket - now!’ I liked his accent, I remember thinking. It was a safe. _He was safe. I was safe, now._

I looked from Lestrade’s face as he looked back to me, to where people in neon jackets were crowding around him. _Andrew_. He had a name. After so long, _he had a name._ He stared at me with that one eye, his body slowly becoming obscured. I wondered where they would take him. I wondered if his parents were still alive.

‘Jesus. You’re bleedin’. We need to get you the _bloody hell_ out of here’.

His earlier statement registered as Inspector Lestrade helped me stand, and I supposed I must have been in shock. My legs felt weak, my had felt fuzzy, and nothing was really making much sense. Should everything have been buzzing so much, should there have been so many people, and why did the air feel so entirely freezing against my skin as I was led up the stairs, through the open door, and into a grey London day?

The outside was a parking lot. Abandoned and surrounded by old, dirty buildings that overshadowed the many police cars. They lit up the daytime with colour, catching in the drizzling rain.

A foil blanket appeared over my shoulders the moment I stepped out, and Lestrade guided me with an arm around my shoulders. I realised that I wanted to _see you_ with such a burning precision that it nearly knocked me out. I may not have known much, felt much, but I knew that.

I must have said something akin to this out loud, quite disconcertingly, because Inspector Lestrade murmured, ‘He’s just over there, Ophelia. Look, let’s get you over to an ambulance, yeah? See, he’s, uh, he’s _comin’, now-_ ’

You were. Amongst the hustle and bustle and shouting police and noise behind me and (oh, they were getting his _body_ , weren’t they?) you were there, umbrella in hand, face a dizzying cold mask. I watched your mouth part, your eyes flicker, your body jolt. I felt one of the many strings tying me together snap, and I felt as if a domino effect might follow.

How odd, I think now, that you were my lighthouse in the storm I was feeling. You snuck up on me, Mister Holmes.

My chest jumped as I walked, my eyes blinked rapidly, and Inspector Lestrade propped me right as I tripped over uneven gravel. The world swayed when he did, and I imagined Caleb, for one dizzying moment. How odd, I remember thinking, that he was gone. Snuffed out. _Dead_.

I stopped for a moment, breath catching, and Lestrade murmured, ‘Come on. Almost there, Ophelia’. I nodded, form straightening, and walked.

You were suddenly marching forward, and I could look nowhere else. Your mouth was tight, and your umbrella swung, and people stepped quickly out of your way as your raincoat swished in your wake.

I was directed toward the ambulance, Lestrade’s hand on the crook of my elbow, but I only had eyes for you. I stared as I sat down, watching your mouth moving as you spoke on the phone. I hadn’t even noticed you were on it. You looked at me and I looked at you, and it was after a few seconds that you nodded and slipped your phone away, your voice cutting short as you suddenly reached me.

You looked at me, really looked at me, sharp eyes flashing from the red staining my ripped shirt, to the blood matting my hair, to the bruising beginning on my cheek. My face wobbled with the need to not cry.

I didn’t.

Lestrade greeted you with a cough, a, ‘Mister Holmes’, and then left promptly, his whole body doing a kind of funny spasm as he looked between us both. I gazed up at you, and you down at me, and I know that you did not know what to say. You had that grim look upon your pale complexion, like a look was enough.

It was.

I was being pushed back by a hand drawing me into the ambulance and a _we have to take you, Miss Carter, your head is bleeding, have you hit your head? Do you feel tired?_

‘Come,’ I had requested you, vision spotting and chest tight and, oh, Caleb, Caleb, Caleb. Your nostrils flared. Your fingers flexed against the umbrella. You seemed taught all over, your whole body radiating something horrible and terrible, like a storm. The hand tugged me back, and I was standing, ducking into the ambulance, my head spinning, chest sticky with blood. ‘Sir - I - _Mycroft_ , _please’_.

Your chest inflated. Your blue eyes flickered. You ducked into the ambulance without a word.

I was lain down on a rickety, narrow bed with a female paramedic fussing over me as the ambulance shot into action. The doors slammed shut heavily, and I remembered thinking that they had done so needlessly aggressively.

She asked if I had a ringing in my ears. I said no. She asked if I felt dizzy. I said yes. She asked if I had blurry vision. I said no. She asked if I felt like vomiting.

I stared.

Caleb was dead.

She asked again.

‘ _Miss Carter_ ,’ you said, suddenly and sharply, and I jolted so hard I nearly slipped off of the narrow bed. The ambulance swerved, and you barely moved from your ominous perch on the seat opposite me. The paramedic, who stood to my left and leafed over a piece of paper, looking sharply up at me.

I gazed at you, throat tightening. My chest suddenly felt very tight. ‘I killed someone, sir,’ in a voice that was both calm and tortured.

You hefted in a deep breath. The paramedic was suddenly there, feeling around my skull, and I was in such a state of disorientation that I hardly noticed her. My legs swayed from where I sat and brushed against your knees. I could feel your warmth through your smart trousers. You looked like a very wise owl sitting in that pristine ambulance. You were so tall that even sitting you needed to duck. Your face tightened. ‘Rightly so’.

The laugh was unexpected and wet, and turned so suddenly into a broken little sob that it had me swaying. I did not break down, not then, but the noise of absolute grief and distress seemed to make you freeze.

I watched, with watery eyes and mild fascination, as your hand made it halfway to mine, which sat on my lap, before you snatched it away with flexing fingers. I huffed and smiled, my head suddenly feeling far heavier. You were so easy predict; I remember thinking. _Silly Mycroft Holmes with his silly ways._

‘I think I need to lie down,’ I said, quite surprised that I sounded hammered. I felt a bit drunk, now that I think of it.

I must have fainted after that. I’m not entirely sure.

I sometimes think that I remember a ghost of your hand against my healed cheekbone, like what had occurred between us in your Dining Room.

I’ll never be sure, though.

_-_

‘There is no concussion,’ the Doctor told me, the moment my eyes fluttered open. I blinked blearily at her. She sounded French. She barely looked at me as she fiddled around my bed, and…and…

‘Oh,’ I croaked. ‘How long-?’

She turned to me, eyes brown and made lighter in the artificial light. I wondered where you were. I wondered how long I had been out.

(A million thoughts slipped into my head in a second: Did Caleb’s parents know he was dead? Where was his body? Did the News know? _Did everyone know?)_

‘You have been asleep for two hours,’ the Doctor replied, a small frown gracing her features. She was abrupt in a way that I did not entirely hate. ‘How are you feeling, Miss Carter? You needed only sutures along your collarbone and you right thigh. We were concerned for the hit you received on your head, but-’

I stared, reality surfacing in a way that I did not like. ‘He’s dead’.

The Doctor blinked, her smile freezing. ‘I understand the situation to be a product of self-defence, Miss Carter. We have been told to keep you in a private suite as special request, so do worry about your name being leaked to the press-’

I stared at her. ‘I didn’t mean him. I meant my friend. Caleb’.

Her throat jumped as she swallowed. There was some red on her lab-coat. ‘Would you like some morphine, Miss Carter? I believe it would help you to sleep a little more-’

‘Where is Mycroft Holmes?’

Again, her smile froze. ‘I’m sorry, who?’

I did not reply.

I allowed her to push me to sleep, the pump of morphine numbing my mind and skin, and her soothing words only empty vessels.

-

When I next awoke, you were there.

‘Your push resulted in his broken neck. Sudden and quick’. You throat jumped as you swallowed. ‘I would have much preferred a longer, more _painful_ death for Mister Andrew Galloway’.

**_I am not yours to boss around-’_ **

**_‘Yes, you are!’_ **

I swallowed. My throat was very dry. ‘Caleb is dead?’

You looked and looked and looked. ‘Yes’. You relayed the information like telling me the weather. ‘I am…sorry’.

I felt sick. ‘You’re not,’ I retorted. It was the first of your traits that genuinely troubled and upset me. ‘Don’t pretend to care when people die, sir. It doesn’t suit you’. I pressed my cheek into the pillow, my eyes only for you. My room was very private, and for that I was thankful. ‘I’m sorry I ignored your call’.

Your jaw jumped. You watched me. You nodded with a small spasm and a flexing of your fingers against your umbrella. I wondered why you took it everywhere with you. ‘I-’ Your mouth puckered, and your throat jumped. You looked as if you might even roll your eyes. ‘I do not _pretend._ You-’ You had flexed your fingers again. ‘The state in which you are in now, it… _burns_ me to see you like this. I will not feign sorrow for your friend, Caleb, as I did not know him. I will not say that if I had, I would not feel any upset to his loss’.

The words ignited only a tinge of annoyance. I was not surprised at this. I knew this, somehow. My chest burned with grief, though. ‘I know,’ I murmured, soft and with a wetness spilling onto my cheeks.

You were surprisingly not alarmed

I lay back, hands over my face to calm my breathing, and clenched my teeth so hard that my jaw cracked. ‘Where are we?’

‘St. Bart’s’. There was a difference to your voice I had never heard before; a quietness that seemed out of character.

‘Can I _not_ be here?’ I asked, trying desperately to hold back the bubbling, frantic sobs that were so close to breaking through. My fingers pressed painfully to my hairline, and the dull throbbing of my injury resonated. ‘What _is it_?’ I snapped, voice watery and why, why, why were you not replying?

‘Your flat is currently the scene of a crime’.

Silence reigned my mind. ‘Oh. Caleb,’ I muttered; my breath warm against my palms. ‘Of course, the photo I got on my phone-’ My laugh was a choking, horrible sound, a disbelief at the horror some people could commit. I launched my palms to my sides, then, and abruptly tried to sit up. My head spun. You look mildly alarmed. ‘My parents - they’re my emergency contacts-’

You jolted, as if to move, as if to stop me, but instead stated, rather more loudly than before, ‘I have _dealt_ with it’.

My words died in my throat, and my body sagged. You watched as I flopped back onto the bed. ‘…My mum will know, though. About Caleb. It was on the News that he was missing, Lestrade said, and she’s known him since we were-’ I swallowed, shutting the tears away in a locked cupboard in my mind. You studied me. ‘Very little’.

‘Your involvement in this entire affair has been…deleted’. Your mouth twitched into a mirthless smile. ‘Your memories, though, I am sure, shall not be’.

I swallowed my feelings. You shifted. ‘When can I leave?’

‘You are in no dire need of medical attention. I simple cleaning regime for your injuries will suffice, according to your Doctor. She is the best, rest assured’.

‘Sir’. You continued to look at me, expression never changing. I almost treasured the fact that you were a pillar of unfeelingness at that moment. I needed it. I felt as if I might burst from everything stirring inside of me. ‘Why are you _here_?’

Your nostrils flared. ‘Must we go through this _again_?’

I smiled tiredly. ‘I’m not in danger anymore, am I? You can go back to be the precise, friendless man you are. No distractions. No silly cleaners to distract you-’

You sneered. I was too numb too care. It was almost liberating, the _grief_. Nothing could feel worse than that, than the memories of cold lips pressed against mine, of scalding coffee burning my leg as I looked at Caleb’s beaten face, of wet cigarettes and one, cold eye. Your anger and disappointment were nothing. ‘ _Must_ you force me to say what you _already know_ , you…you _disruptive_ woman?’

I managed a weak smile, dismally amused at your theatrics. You had huffed down at me, jaw working and eyes like ice. ‘I would like, if anything, for you to not stop talking. You’re distracting me in the best of ways, sir’.

You lip curled. ‘I thought you _dead,_ Miss Carter’. My smile faded. Your fingers flexed. I watched the motion with dazed fascination. ‘I have lived in a world of abysmally _stupid_ people. _Everyone_ is below me. My own brother was the only person who could even slightly keep up with me, and even then, he was so dreadfully _slow’_. You breathed sharply through your nose and gathered yourself for a moment. Your pupils, I thought, as I gazed up at you with a numb mind and breathless thoughts, always seemed so dark and wide next to your eyes. ‘I have… _recognised_ that, with yourself, such things do not matter. I do not find that you cannot even _attempt_ to compete with my intellect as…irksome as I thought I would. I do not care that you obtain a terrible taste in décor. I do not, as it were, care that you are perhaps everything I might have once _detested._ Thank the _Heavens_ , I have found that you are an exception’.

I licked my lips. My heart thudded dully; loudly. ‘Your bedside manner is _wonderful_ , sir’.

You sent me a withering look. ‘Upon your abduction… I felt, for the first time for someone other than my brother, _worry’._ You grimaced at your own words. ‘I think, Miss Carter, I might see you as a…a friend _’_. You relayed the word as if it were acid in your mouth.

My mouth twitched into a smile. ‘I did wonder when you were going to admit it to yourself’.

Your brow twitched as you considered me, lying amongst the thin sheet and the stiff pillow, my face bruised and my skin pallid. ‘You have an uncanny ability to _see_ others’.

I swallowed. ‘I thought that was _you_ , sir’.

You dipped your head, mouth twitching. ‘I _read_ , Miss Carter. I can deduce if a person has a _gardener_ , what a person’s profession is, if their partner is having an affair. I see people for what they _do_. I can tell, from the way in which you are swallowing every six seconds, that you are thirsty. Likely a side effect of the morphine. You, on the other hand,…you _see_ people’.

My throat swelled and my eyes watered. I didn’t care, anymore, about crying. I just wanted everything to stop. I wanted your voice to lull me to sleep, and I wanted to continue not thinking of horrible, dead things.

‘Tell me what to do, sir’. My voice was a faint whisper, a silent beg. I was not fighting. Not then. In that moment, I needed the possessive, the controlling, the overbearing. I needed the _Iceman_ to tell me what to do, to take me away somewhere, to do his worst and tuck me away.

I needed _you_.

You straightened you back, making your six-foot form seem all the larger in the sterile room, and looked down your nose at me. ‘You will return to my home with me, Miss Carter’.

It seemed so oddly right to do so.

The door opened then, and my watery stare cut away from you with a jolt and shiver down my spine. I had not realised how safe I had felt with the door closed to my hospital room, away from the loudness and the scurrying of the outside corridor. The woman who entered was a Nurse, this time, young and pretty and friendly. She smiled, looking from you to me.

‘Hello, Miss Carter,’ she greeted, stepping into the room and shutting the door swiftly behind her. She walked and spoke with a forced kind of politeness and sweetness. She likely knew what had happened to me, I figured. I would not have put it past you to have controlled every person who came into my room, that day. ‘I wondered if you could talk to me in private, for a moment?’

She had a dark hair, like me. Her eyes were green, though. I wondered if Andrew Galloway would have passed on her. Too slim, maybe.

Your lip wrinkled. I nodded, swallowing the tightness in my throat and waiting with bated breath for what she would say. I just wanted to _go_. I wanted to tuck myself away in your Guest Room, of which I had already made smell of oil paints. The prison that I had grown bored of was something I needed, then.

I looked at you for a long moment as the Nurse shifted between us, and with a dramatic sigh and a flair of you coat, you had stormed from the room with a flick of your gaze my way.

She stood before my bed when you left, her smile kind and her voice soft when she spoke. ‘You will be able to leave soon, Miss Carter, I promise you. I can see that your boyfriend is quite eager to get you out of here, and I can imagine why. You have been through a terrible ordeal-’

I huffed a small laugh. ‘He’s not my boyfriend’. Boyfriend. What a ridiculous word to associate with you.

‘Oh’. Her tone was one of quiet, embarrassed surprised. ‘I just assumed…with the way he’s been ordering the police around out there and _brooding_ whilst you were being checked over…My mistake’. The smile was back. I didn’t have it in me to blush red. ‘I first wanted to ask you the most difficult thing, Miss Carter. It will be kept entirely confidential, no matter what you say. Even your…friend will not be informed. I need to ask you whether you were raped’.

_All of his victims were sexually assaulted._

I swallowed. My mouth was beginning to hurt it was so dry. ‘No,’ I croaked. Cold lips against my mouth, my neck, my skin. ‘I think that was…his intention. But no’.

Her shoulders sagged. ‘Thank God,’ the Nurse smiled. ‘That is a test we do not need to do, then. Everything else has checked out entirely fine. You need to clean your sutures every day until they disintegrate. Avoid knocking them in the shower, if you can. You might get a few headaches from the knock you had on your head, but some painkillers will do the job. You were lucky, Miss Carter’.

I could hardly smile at that. I was aware of my luck; of my ability to escape so unscathed when Caleb was dead, and those women had died before me.

‘Right,’ I winced. ‘Thank you’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful responses, one and all!
> 
> The reason I have put the note at the end of this chapter was to avoid spoilers. I wanted to say that, rest assured, those who love a slow burn will be pleased to know that just because of Mycroft's ability to admit he sees Ophelia as a friend, that will not be speeding things up. Just think...he spends seven months away to find Sherlock...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I've had a fair few essays to do, as well as being away for a little longer than planned, but I am back. 
> 
> Thank you so, so, so much for the amazing feedback! Your kind words mean so much to me! As always, give my Tumblr mycrosoftholmes a follow and drop me any questions you have!

I appeared before you, dressed in the jumper and trousers provided by the hospital (my clothes, I knew, had been thrown away, so cut up and covered in blood they were), and harboured a minor limp as I shuffled out of my private hospital room.

Inspector Lestrade stood with you at the corner of the quiet hallway, his expression a little miffed. Neither of you noticed me for just a moment, but I caught enough of your cold, indifferent look toward Lestrade to understand for a moment why everyone feared you so much. You seemed entirely _inhuman_.

The Nurse who saw me out of my room patted my back and whispered a good luck to me, and I smiled at her the best that I could.

‘-Silence is a _virtue_ , remember, Inspector’.

You looked my way as I meandered over to the two of you, my smile toward Lestrade a twitch of my mouth. ‘Hello, Inspector,’ I greeted, feeling small and useless and tired of eyes looking at me with such pity. It wasn’t me who needed the pity. It was the people who were _gone_.

I wanted to be away from this place, so that I could mourn and scream and cry until my eyes felt sore. I wanted to shower away the dirt that the hospital had not; to pick dirt and blood from under my fingernails and seep into the soft quilt of your Guest bed.

Lestrade smiled tightly, his eyes friendly but his form stiff, as if he was annoyed at your conversation. ‘Miss Carter,’ he greeted, in that London twang. He was _warm_. ‘You look much better. I’m glad you’re gettin’ out of here so fast’.

‘Ophelia,’ I corrected, and he nodded. ‘And…thank you, Inspector. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me’. I felt your eyes burning as you looked at me. I continued to address only Lestrade.

He waved a hand. ‘My job, Ophelia. I, uh…’ He trailed off. I finally looked at you, only to see you rolling your eyes to the ceiling.

‘Oh, for God’s _sake_ , Inspector. Despite my distaste for the situation, _do get on with it’_.

Lestrade breathed sharply through his nose, bestowing you with a scornful look.

‘Yes, _thank you, Mister Holmes’._ Lestrade turned away from you and to me once again. His smile was forced and stiff. Down the hall, around the corner where it was busier, I could hear the dull ring of a bell. The sound made my ears ache. I wanted to _sleep_. ‘I thought, considerin’ you’re probably wanting to go… _home’_. He looked sideways to you. You ignored him entirely. ‘Well, I’m gonna need to file some kind of report for you, Ophelia. An account of what happened. I’m not really meant to be doing it like this, so unofficially, but if we did it _now_ , you’d be left alone, then-’

I nodded, sharply. _Get it out of the way_ , I thought, _whilst you’re still a little put together_. ‘Of, course’.

_I owe Caleb that much._

_-_

‘He drugged me. With chloroform, I think. I got to my flat, realised that I had forgotten my keys, and was about to…I don’t know, to try and _break down the door_ , when he grabbed me from behind’. I looked to Lestrade. I could feel you behind me. Not physically just…your presence. You were so completely silent. I eyed the recording device. ‘I just wanted to get to Ca-’

I swallowed sharply and looked at Lestrade. My cheeks flushed with sudden emotion. He nodded. ‘Right. And when you woke up?’

My jaw clicked as I clenched it. ‘I was in a room down a corridor. You’ll probably have seen it. There was blood on the doorframe…not mine. _He_ was…’ My skin crawled. I suddenly wished that you were not there. Something about relaying this information in front of you made me feel _weak_. ‘He was sitting close to me when I woke up. I tried to hurt him, to push him…and that’s when he hit my head against the wall’.

I decided to communicate the facts as they were; _facts_. It would be easier, I figured, to distance myself emotionally from the memory. To brush my fingertips against the vivid scenes of _him_ and _me_.

Lestrade nodded again, egging me to continue. ‘He called me Olivia, so I played along. I liked that, and I figured, from the way he was acting, that he loved this Olivia. His sister, he said’.

‘How he was acting?’ Lestrade looks at his notepad, pen dancing across the paper.

Your presence felt like a block of ice. My world swayed. My skin itched. ‘He started kissing me. I let him. I had to’.

Lestrade nodded again. Hs gaze flicked over my head. ‘Right’.

I cleared my throat. ‘I asked for his name, and he told me. I figured that since he was being so honest, now that I was playing along, I could ask-’ My throat constricted, and my voice hitched. ‘About Caleb’. Another nod. ‘He told me what he had done, and I…lost it, a bit’.

_Phee. Phee. Phee. Do you think I’ll ever organise a party for, like, a celebrity? How insane would it be if I got to meet one of The Real Housewives? I would freak._

‘You tried to run?’

It was my turn to nod. I did so with a small shake of my head, which made for a very confusing motion. ‘I headbutted him, from what I remember’. My fingers ghosted against my bruised forehead. ‘I got as far as the door, he grabbed me…cut me with what I found out what a knife. He was stronger than I thought he’d be, but I managed to…’ I weakly held up my fingers and made a light jabbing motion. ‘…Fuck with his eye’.

Lestrade’s mouth curved sadly.

These memories were closer to the surface; bubbling and scratching to get out. ‘I ran to the stairs. He got me again. He started slamming my head against the floor, and I knew that…that if he did it again, I’d be out cold’. The feeling of helplessness was a close memory, and it felt stifling. My voice hitched louder. ‘And I _knew_ what he’d do to me. I knew what he’d already done to Caleb, and those other girls, and I _couldn’t die. So,_ I kissed him’.

_Kissed the dead man. The murderer. The man who I threw down the stairs and **crack**! He was dead. I haven’t kissed anyone in over a year. I kissed him and he died, and he had just killed my friend and I can still feel him touching me, cutting me, hurting me-_

I suddenly wanted to be out of that room; out of the hospital. ‘It distracted him. I gauged his eye again, pushed him down the stairs, and then you found me’.

Lestrade swallowed and leaned back, his throat clearing a clear indication that this conversation, this interview, was as good as over. He looked at me, really looked at me, and said, ‘You’ve done brilliantly, Ophelia. Thank you’.

I slouched back from the brief and stiff farewells you and Inspector Lestrade shared, and I did not miss the curious looks that the grey-haired man shot between us as you propped open the door for me, your entire form practically radiating a statuesque kind of coldness.

I couldn’t stop myself from turning back to Lestrade and saying, ‘No one will know it was me?’

He smiled tightly; dark eyes warm. ‘No one’.

That was enough for me.

You were almost touching me you were so close, as you strode through the hospital with your umbrella swinging and your shoes clacking. I walked beside you, a sad, baggy clothed passenger on your confident walk. I spied a look to you, deciding that perhaps the confidence was more of a pissed off stalk.

We reached an empty elevator and I absently scratched a sudden itch on my chest and hissed suddenly at the sharp pinching there. My fingers meet crusted blood and pinched skin. ‘Bugger,’ I muttered, and you snapped toward me, as if lapsing out of a long thought. ‘I forgot about that’. With a tired, sad smile, I looked up at you.

You offered me _nothing_. Your gaze zoomed in on where I had tugged down the collar of the grey jumper, pupils thinning, before you straightened and stood stock still, your gaze back on the elevator door.

I was too tired to care.

There was a car waiting at the entrance of the hospital; the black and sleek one. I thanked you quietly when you held the door open for me, weary awareness pondering if this was something you had been brought up to do. The separator was up, as always, when I slipped into the car, and with little noise you followed suite, your umbrella laying between us and the leather of your gloves rubbing against the seats as you sat, straight as a rod, as the car rumbled to life.

I felt suddenly as if I could breathe.

I thought about the fact that we maybe should have checked out of the hospital, or something of the sort, but concluded that you had likely sorted everything out. What an odd relief it was, to _rely_ on someone for a change, no matter how cold that person might be.

You still had not spoken.

I was too fatigued, too _despondent_ , to initiate a conversation with you. I instead lay my head against the window and watched the streets of London blur and blue, until all I could see were the colours of people, the sounds of the street, the feel of you next to me, although a seat over-

_That one looks like **actual** shit._

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and pressed my forehead painfully against the cold window. If you noticed, you didn’t say anything. My whole body felt like an elastic band waiting to snap, with the effort I was going to, to not heave out a sob then and there.

You continued to say nothing, even as we arrived at your home. We stepped out of the car and into the cold, and I thought about the blur of leaving your house, of tripping down the road, of feeling sick and tired on the tube, of hoping and praying that he was safe, that Caleb was not-

The front door closed behind us. Your house was cold. I swayed. ‘I’m sorry about the coffee I spilt on your carpet,’ I said. I barely heard myself speak.

You stood in front of me, shoulders broad and stiff and umbrella clenched into a fist. The sharp point jutted into the ground. You did not look at me. I forgot how tall you were, sometimes. ‘Sleep, Miss Carter’.

And then, with a swish of your coat and swing of your umbrella down the hallway, you were gone.

-

I will not go into the semantics of my furious sobbing as I gripped the goose feather pillow to my face, my form curled into a ball and my mouth wide open against the fabric as I cried and cried and cried, my sobs all but silent in your home. It went on for a few hours, until I finally stumbled into the shower and was as careful with my stiches as my Nurse had ordered me to be.

The mirror in front of the shower was steamed up, but I could still _see me._ Hair a tangled, wet mess around my shoulders, dark eyes surrounded by dark circles. I had lost weight around my thighs, and I supposed this was from stress. My collarbone was marred by a bruised, deep cut that looked only slightly red, and my hip was decorated with a similar, shallower cut. Upon closer inspection in the mirror, as I rubbed noisily at the ornate frame above the wooden counter, I could see only a few bruises dotting my jaw. They looked like fingertips.

I brushed my teeth furiously. So hard that, when I spat into the sink, the white froth had traces of pink.

I did not have my phone, I realised, as I padded into the dark bedroom. The curtains were drawn shut. Somehow, there was no trace of coffee stain on the carpet. I did not bother to question how. The fact that I did not have my phone only resulted in the realisation that I could not contact anyone.

I pushed my closed eyes against my fingers when I realised that the only people who would really call me now were my parents. I was never close with anyone at _Maid to Clean,_ due to the fact that so few of us frequented the Head Office. Caleb was the only person who messaged me, who called me, who I bothered to keep close to me.

The impending loneliness was suffocating.

I decided that I was not ready to see you, nor wonder why you were colder than usual, and crawled naked into bed. My wet hair felt freezing against my warm skin, and I lay on my back against the soft sheets, my chest throbbing.

I slept. I did not dream. I was so very, very thankful.

-

I slept and slept and slept, right up until the moment I heard slight footfalls descending down your staircase. You know, it was the first time I had ever heard you make noise in your own home.

I slid out of the bed and changed into that loose, white dress. The one that I seemed to have worn only a few days ago but felt like a lifetime ago. It was not constrictive and allowed my wounds to breathe easily. It was odd, how little I felt worried or awkward about exposing my wounds to you.

In my grief, I began to truly consider why I felt so…so naturally myself in front of you. No falsities, no smiles, no assurance that I was okay. Your ability to be so unapologetically yourself appeared to have rubbed off on me. It was…liberating, to grieve without worrying if I was grieving _enough_ or _too much._ It was why I was not nervous as I padded downstairs, feet bare and dress swaying, and eyed the morose paintings as they glared down your stairs at me.

You were sitting at the Dining Room table when I found you, dressed only in your white, button-up shirt and a waistcoat, your elbows on the polished wood and your head dipped as if you were awaiting my arrival.

I stopped in the archway, my shoulder against the door wood. I crossed my arms, and the wound of my chest pinched. You were as still as a statue. ‘Sir,’ I said, my voice quiet and loud at the exact same time. ‘I can’t stay here’.

You did not fight it, not this time. Perhaps you were scared, I wondered. Perhaps you felt the gears shifting, the world moving to accommodate this friendship that we had made. It took only my hysterics and my long sleep to realise that was why you were suddenly so distant; so cold: you feared my friendship.

You brought your interlocked fingers to your chin and breathed deeply. ‘I am not prone to silly thoughts, Miss Carter,’ you said, voice a low hum. I stared. ‘I am not prone to thoughts of revenge, nor madness, nor _sentiment._ I am a man of order. My mind works in ways that you cannot fathom. And yet, _and yet_ , upon hearing in _depth_ the trials that you went through; of what almost happened to you-’ You breathed in sharply through your nose, yet your voice remained a mask of composure. You stared now at the other end of the table, me to your right. ‘I thought of how unfair it was, that Andrew Galloway was dead, because I might have enjoyed hurting him myself. _Maiming_ him, perhaps. I am not unversed in the acts of torture, nor are those who I…employ’.

Finally, you looked at me. Your eyes were like chips of eyes on a cold winter day. There was no warmth to you. ‘I have never faced a distraction quite like you. You are worse than brother, in that respect, but similarly I find myself worrying for you as I did him. _Constantly’_.

I smiled, tired and sad. ‘Mycroft Holmes cannot have such distractions’.

Your lips quirked. Your jaw jumped. ‘You see, Miss Carter, despite your ability to read others quite well, you are only touching upon the truth here’. The chair scraped near noiselessly as you stood, all grace and pomposity and chin dipped to look down at me. ‘It appears, despite the truth in your words and mine, I cannot quite bring myself to allow you to leave’.

Something hot, fighting against the cold of my grief, wrapped itself around my lungs. _Allow you._

You dipped your head, turning to face me fully, now. There was at least three feet between us. ‘I considered offering you a flat in Notting Hill. A small place, from my days at University, that I never let go of. A gift, you see, from my Uncle’. My sniffed. ‘I considered changing the lease to your name. I understand that Notting Hill is the place, as it were, for those in your profession’.

Perhaps had I not been emotionally exhausted, I might have flushed scarlet. Perhaps were my relationship with you not morphing into one of frank words, I might have been flabbergasted at the offer. Yet, I was beginning to grow so used to _you_.

‘Iceman,’ I said, with a sad, wry smile and a light tone of jest in my voice. How wrong they were. ‘I can’t stay here without giving something in return, sir’.

You inclined your head. ‘Yes…I _feared_ you would offer something so… _sentimental_ ’. I thought about rebutting you; about laughing at the fact that you did not see yourself as such. I didn’t, I thought it might frighten you. ‘I would like to pay the commission for the painting you are doing for me in full. 5,000 pounds’.

‘ _Sir_ -’

‘This is not charity, Miss Carter. It is business. You are talented. I do not lie or offer falsities on individuals talents as to not _hurt their feelings’._ You wrinkled your nose. ‘Perhaps I am doing this because it is you, alas, I cannot bring myself to care. For you to stand on your own two feet, I will aid you. Isn’t that what you artists _dream_ of - _to live off you work?’_

The tightening in my throat was coming again. ‘I am in the midst of an entire emotional upheaval, sir. If you carry on, I _really might_ cry on you’.

You looked alarmed. ‘Yes, well. Let us not have _that’_. You paused, gaze flickering over me. You did it in such a way that allowed me to see what you were doing; that you looked from cut, to bruise, to scrape. You met my eye with a cold wrinkle of your mouth. ‘I will not lie and tell you that you will not continue to be watched, for you will. I would like you, Miss Carter, to be happy. To be safe. For selfish reasons, I assure you. If I am to do what I do, I need to do it with a clear head’.

‘Where do I tell people I’m living? I can’t keep paying rent on my flat-’

‘What _people_?’

That was stung, I’ll admit. I winced and managed a dry smile. ‘Right,’ I muttered. ‘There are no people to tell’. I thought for a moment more. ‘I’ll still sell my paintings on my Instagram, to make a living’.

‘Yes’.

‘I’ll be able to leave the house - albeit, I know your minions will be watching me’.

‘Indeed’.

I gazed tiredly up at you. ‘Until I am on my feet’.

You dipped your chin. ‘Indeed’.

I furrowed my brow, fingernails biting into my palm. ‘Thank you, sir’.

You inclined your head. ‘Do not thank me yet, Miss Carter’.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys!! Thank you so, so much for the kudos and comments, they made my week! Life is a bit hectic, I'm sure you all know. A lot of my deadlines are up in the air and have been extended, and with lectures cancelled I have more time to write and distract myself from the shit show of the world right now.
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe! Wash your hands and don't feel guilty about having to go to work when everyone is telling you that staying at home is imperative. Whilst it is (necessary travel etc is a big no no), I'm seeing a lot of people who are feeling almost guilty for having to work. A lot of businesses don't offer pay for this kind of thing, so others need to understand that!
> 
> Anyway, rant over. Stay safe guys! Follow me at mycrosoftholmes @ Tumblr.

I awoke with swollen eyes the next day, and a headache that said more about my fits of crying than anything else. I blinked blearily into the light that the curtains filtered into the room, my hand curled beneath my sticky cheek. It took me a moment to collect myself, to rid myself of the blissful moment of not remembering. It was usually at this time that I would check my phone, and the sudden swoop of guilt and worry jolted me more awake.

My mum, I was sure, would know of Caleb by now. The News outlets would have spread whatever lies you had orchestrated on his death. I needed to know. I needed to _see_. I went downstairs without washing my face, brushing my hair, or even putting on a bra, knowing that you would have left for work hours ago. It seemed foreign to me in that moment, to consider that I would once stand on your threshold in my pressed _Maid to Clean_ uniform and worry about running into you.

How domestic it all sounded. I might have hated the dutifully role I had taken on, waiting for you like a dog at home, but I was too…too _something_. Sad seemed like a silly word for what I felt.

Realising that you did not have a TV stumped me for a moment, as I wondered how I would see what the News was saying. I considered getting on the tube, but realised I only had my card, which wasn't contactless. I could buy an underground ticket...did they even _do_ those anymore, I wondered? I chewed my lip at the bottom of your stairs, before I turned, and caught a glimpse of something on the Dining Room table.

Upon better inspection, I saw what it was. An iPhone box, sleek and white. The newest model. The highest GB. Rose Gold. I was surprised at the choice of colour, before I saw a neatly scrawled yellow post-it-note sitting next to the box. _Your mothers, Mister Holmes, Inspector Lestrade’s and my own number are already inputted. The device is set up to your original phone number. Enjoy. Anthea._

I all but gaped.

I was starting to feel a bit like a Sugar Baby, you know. I shook the thought from my mind, reprimanding myself quietly on thinking anything funny at all. I didn’t deserve to, not when…when Caleb’s mum and dad were suffering. When my own parents were probably trying to get a hold of me.

So, with a deep breath, I scooped the phone from the box, and pressed the power on button.

-

I walked as I talked, nodding to my mother’s stifled sobs, her voice breaking and hitching as she sputtered out disbelief. ‘I just don’t-don’t _understand_ how people can be so _awful_. He was a baby - _twenty-four_ -’

I swallowed my own tears, my voice wobbly and thick. The phone screen pressed was awkwardly to my wet cheek. ‘It’s just-’ I choked. It was all too much; the lying and the sidestepping how fucked up it really all felt. I wanted to tell her so much. I wanted to tell her that I no longer lived at home, that I had left my job, that Caleb had died and the blood stained my hands, that I had taken a life from this Earth, no matter how awful that life was. I didn't. I couldn't. Selfishly, I had you, and you were enough. ‘I’m sorry I made you worry, mum. I just needed…needed to process. I only saw him a little while ago, and I-’

I could practically hear her nod. Her breath shuddered. I could imagine dad hovering in the background, the TV on some daytime News channel. ‘Do you…do you think it was a _homophobic_ attack? He was…he was beaten so badly, the News says, and I can’t bear to think-’

My throat spasmed. I stopped dead in the cold and empty kitchen, my heart seizing. That's what everyone would think, then. Caleb would be the face of _pride_. _That wasn't what happened_ , I want to scream. _It had nothing to do with that._ ‘Mum,’ I said, voice strangled and chest jumping. ‘Mum, I can’t-’

She sobbed. ‘I know. I’m sorry, darling. You’ve known him for so long, my darling girl - oh, dad wants to say something-’

She was gone before I can agree.

‘Hello, Phee’.

_We’re never going to kiss again, right, Phee? Because that was gross, and I am so gay._

I smiled, small sobs catching in my throat. I wondered if anyone had ever cried this much in your house. I wondered if you had ever cried. Maybe with your brother; the great Sherlock Holmes. ‘Hey, dad’.

‘I’m sorry, darling. I am so, so sorry,’ my dad’s voice is calm and collected, with that hint of pity and genuine upset that has my eyes watering as I turned and stared at the fridge. ‘Caleb was a…a good man’.

 _The best_ , I think.

They hung up with promises that I will keep them updated with messages daily, and I made them promise to give Caleb’s parents the card I will be sending their way with my number and such. Messaging them on Facebook seemed…less intimate that I wanted. There were things like when the Funeral would be to think about.

I lowered the phone with a harsh rub at my eyes, my gaze narrowing on the post-it-note amongst the Indian Takeaway leaflet and another piece of paper with a jumble of letters and numbers on it.

_Shall not return until late. Eat. Rest._

_MH_

I stared, before packeting the note without thought and slid onto the kitchen floor, the stone numbingly cold against my thighs, and cried a little out of pure habit at that point, as I typed a message on my phone, a gift from you.

_Thank you, sir - Ophelia._

It buzzed not a moment later.

_My pleasure, Miss Carter - MH_

-

I was no longer a cleaner. I no longer had my flat. I would ask you, when you arrived home, what this meant for my things. I assumed you would have sorted them into storage of some kind and realised how little this bothered me. It was not, I realised, the grief that made me care so little about the upheaval of my life, but you.

Your control was a comfort to me. It made me feel _held_.

I cleaned, because it distracted me. This lasted for only an hour, before the exhaustion set in, something of which I was, at first, surprised at, but then realised was a product of stress. How privileged had my life been, that I had never truly felt exhaustion like this; the kind that came with grief and emotional upheaval?

I wondered if this was how you felt when your brother fell.

I stared at the painting I had made for you, the blues blurring the small quarter I had painted. In my whirl of emotions, as I sat on the desk chair pointed toward the window and the canvas, and added red to the mix, blurring murky as it met the icy blue.

Fire, meet Ice.

Ice, meet Fire.

I wondered if you would understand the meaning. I’m not entirely sure I did, at the time. Perhaps I did not want to understand what you meant to me. Perhaps I so desperately wanted to be like you, like Ice, to stop feeling what I was feeling like a terrible roaring fire. Iceman, they called you. I believed it, and yet I did not. I wondered if you hated the name, or took pride from it.

I curled into bed in the late afternoon, my sobs heaving and filling the house, and I cried louder than I would have ever dared to in my apartment building, where others could easily hear me.

 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ I chanted, and when I finally stood up, head swaying from so much crying, I spied out in the dim light a very, very faint outline of a stain on the carpet, and I was suddenly thrown back to holding my phone, a picture of Caleb bruised and beaten before me, and coffee burning my ankles.

I all but bolted downstairs, thankful that I could have these moments of grief pouring out of me when you were not home.

-

I fingered at the glass, one of your few, and swigged back the smooth yet startling taste of bourbon. It warmed my stomach like a low fire, and I stuck my tongue out and made a noise of repulsion that would have left you affronted.

I didn’t think you would mind if I had a little. Two swigs, and then I washed the glass, like it never happened.

I found myself flicking on an ornate lamp in your Sitting Room and basking in your book collection.

My fingers ran over the books, and I smiled upon seeing which books had more creases than others. _Ulysses, The Brothers Karamazov, Being and Time,_ and _The Silmarillion_ seemed to be the most well-read, out of your hundreds of books. Even for someone of your intelligence, reading seemed like a pastime you might stick your nose up at, were someone to ask you about it. _A waste of time._

Never one to appear to human, right? You were beyond such a thing. 

Something warm settled inside of me at the knowledge that you had read _The Silmarillion._ I knew so little about you, despite seeing more of you than others might, and to know that you read something of a fantasy genre was…surprising.

Then again, no one in their right mind would read _The Lord of the Rings_ and think, _this needs way more backstory._ Only you would read a complete mythological history of Tolkien's universe. I was jealous, really, that you had the patience to do so. There were so many books before that I wished I had the capacity and tolerance to read, but knew that I couldn’t and wouldn’t.

I had tried to read _War and Peace_ , once, in Sixth Form, thinking that I would be oh-so cool if I tried. It was a fucking disaster.

It took me a while to realise that not only were all of the books that spanned nearly half of your sitting room in alphabetical order of the authors, but also ordered into the dates they were released. I stood somewhere around the 1800’s, before sliding _Pride and Prejudice_ , far less weathered than the rest of the books, from its place.

It was a book I had read, and enjoyed, and figured that I wouldn’t force myself to read any of your ridiculously difficult books. I mean, who would read _Ulysses_ for fun?

I folded myself into your sofa, the sway of bourbon in my mind and the bitter taste on my tongue, and I understood why people drank when they were sad. I balanced the book, a hard copy with a fading leather front, onto my lap, and skimmed through my favourite parts, my eyes drooping, my stomach cold with the feel of being full of only alcohol.

 _Her heart,_ I read, over an hour later, _did whisper that he had done it for her._

_-_

I dreamt of hands touching me, caressing me, flattening the dark hair over my shoulders in a soft manner. Perhaps my mind was concocting something lovely for me to fall back on in my sleep, knowing what turmoil my waking mind was in. Even in my dreams, I had the memory of Andrew Galloway, with his mouth against mine and his hand in my hair.

I felt the glint of cold and turned to the hand on my shoulder, finding a golden ring on a pinkie, and a flash of blue eyes, and a downturned mouth. ‘Miss Carter,’ they said, this dream-like version of you, banishing thoughts of Andrew Galloway from my subconscious, and then I was awake.

It was silent around me, and I blinked blearily up at you, noting for a split moment that you looked quite lovely in the soft glow of the lamp and the dark shadows of your home. You hair was pushed back, and your face held a curious expression. You were without your jacket, and swallowed and said, ‘Sorry', in an embarrassingly croaky voice.

You frowned down at me. Even from this angle, your face down, you still managed to have the look of someone raising their nose. ‘Whatever for?’

I was tired, cold, and curled at an odd angle with _Pride and Prejudice_ propped onto the arm of the sofa next to me. ‘I don’t really know, sir,’ I replied, quietly, shaking sleep from my mind. I swallowed and started to sit up. ‘What kept you so late?’ You frowned. ‘Oh, go on. Who am _I_ going to tell?’ It was meant as a joke, but the truth words hung between us.

You raised a brow, still standing before me with fists clenched at your sides and expression tight. ‘You have been drinking’.

I swallowed, feeling oddly guilty. _Fuck that,_ I thought, and raised my chin. I would not feel guilty for _drinking_. ‘Two drinks. Calmed my nerves a little’.

Your mouth thinned. ‘You will ensure this will not become a habit’. It was not a request. My stomach flipped at the burning in your gaze, the dip of your chin, the stiffness of your shoulders. _Worry_ , I realised. 

‘I will,’ I promised quietly.

Your gaze flicked to the book resting beside me. You tilted your head. ‘You purposefully fell asleep here’.

I blinked. ‘I-’

‘The book is placed so it would not fall or be damaged. You are sitting in a position that required you to move to be more comfortable. You have even moved the pillows as such. Why, I wonder?’ You were answering your own question immediately. ‘The stain. Yes, it was _troubling_ to remove in a hurry. A deeper clean will surely do so, but an… _upsetting_ reminder of that morning, I am sure-’

‘I’ll pay,’ I cut in, desperate for you to _stop_. Sometimes, I hated how well you could deduce others. 

You blinked. That, you were not expecting. Perhaps you were more used to angry snapping when you read others so well. ‘Pardon?’

‘For the _deep clean_. It was my fault. I’ll pay-’

Your edges softened, and you stood a little straighter. I reminded myself for what seemed the millionth time that you were not like this with others. I should be careful when welcoming your niceness; your _softness_. ‘You will not’. I didn’t bother arguing. You did something, then, that I had not expected.

You sat on the sofa, just a seat over from me, sighing just slightly, and said, ‘In reply to your earlier question, there was word of a terrorist attack in London’. You shook your head just slightly at my alarmed expression. ‘It has been handled’.

I turned, legs folding beneath me so I could face you. You sat with your back curved against the back of the sofa, and you undid the cuffs of your shirt in such a way that my chest flushed, and my eyes kept catching on your long fingers plucking at the buttons. I blinked myself more awake, and glanced out toward the large windows, that welcomed only darkness into the sitting room. ‘I didn’t think you would really tell me,’ I admitted, turning back to you. 

You cast a quick glance my way. You seemed entirely unbothered by my statement. If I looked closely, as I always did with you, I could see that there was a darkness under your eyes that was not usually there. ‘One terrible distraction to overpower another’.

_Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her._

I blinked rapidly at your words, my throat constricting. ‘What time is it?’

The cuffs finished, you crossed one leg over another and, even in what I assumed was your relaxed form, you still managed to sit like a King amongst his court. ‘A little after twelve in the morning’. You eyed me, in a brief silence, and I wondered what you could see. Probably _everything_.

‘Have you eaten?’ You cocked a brow. ‘I’ll take that as a no. I haven’t either’. I was standing quickly, book in hand as I crossed past you to slip it back in its place on the bookshelf. I stood there for a moment, rubbed my eyes, and turned to you. ‘I’ll cook’.

You stared at me, brow raised and mouth a line, before sighing and standing with that air of exasperation that you seemed to carry everywhere with you. ‘Very _well’_.

-

I wondered if you knew what you were; a _distraction_. Perhaps I was the same to you. Perhaps you would never admit that you were lonely in this house, before you welcomed me into it with little choice on my part. Perhaps you didn't know what lonely meant.

Not that I was complaining.

The fridge was far more stocked than it had been in the months before when I had frequented your home, and I didn’t say anything on this. Instead, I padded around your kitchen in socks and silk pyjamas, asking you again and again what you wanted.

‘I have told you,’ you grouched, standing awkwardly to the edge of your kitchen. ‘I do not _mind’_.

I rolled my eyes. ‘You mind _everything_. If I make something that you do not _like_ -’

‘I assure you, I will _eat it’_.

 _‘Fine’._ I ended up pulling fresh pasta from the fridge, along with cheese, basil, salmon and mushrooms. ‘I’m not a very good cook,’ I warned you, glancing over my shoulder to your stoic form as I placed the ingredients on the side. ‘I sit very happily on average’.

You eyebrow rose slowly. ‘I guessed as much from the sheer number of takeaways you order, _funnily enough._ I shan’t complain, I _assure_ you. It is not very often I myself eating a home cooked meal’. I was surprised you shared such a thing with me, but thought nothing of it as I rummaged through the cupboards for pots and pans.

I was in the midst of placing boiling water from the kettle into a pot when you spoke, voice level as if to not frighten me. Like a was a _dog_. ‘You have spoken to your mother today’.

I turned to stiffly chop the mushrooms. ‘Is that a _deduction_ or are you watching my phone - _God_ , I didn’t even think, are you paying for my phone bill - _fuck_ -’ I yanked my hand away from the knife, blood beading on my forefinger, and winced. ‘ _Of course,_ you sharpen your knives-’

‘Christ,’ you muttered, shoes clacking against the floor as you walk those four-long steps toward me. It must be nice, being so tall. My heart stuttered up into my throat when you curled your fingers around my hand and considered the shallow slice with a blandly disapproving expression. ‘Soon you will be covered from head to toe in injuries’.

I swallowed and stared up at you. ‘I’m prone to accidents,’ I muttered, cheeks flushed and God, how _selfish_ was I for looking at you like this, when Caleb was _dead, dead, dead_? Up close, I could see the ginger peeking through your thinning hair.

With that awful intensity of yours, your eyes flashed to mine, and your mouth pulled slightly. A moment past, and something slipped between us, before you linked rapidly. ‘Under the tap’, you ordered. I complied without thought. ‘I will cook,’ you added. ‘And you will _sit._ If I leave you standing for another minute, you will likely find another way to injure yourself-’

‘Ye of little faith,’ I muttered, shoving my bloody finger under the cold tap and wincing at the slight sting. I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder at you, watching as you rolled your loose shirt sleeves just slightly up your forearm, back to me, and stood with shoulders straight, head bent, jaw working, knife slicing-

I snapped back around, cheeks aflame and guilt swirling. Absently, I ran the fingers of my free hand along the puckered injury of my chest and frowned. ‘I _did_ talk to my mum, yes’. The sound of knife hitting chopping board was my only reply. ‘And I looked at the News. It was smart, to make Caleb’s death an attack. It could have easily been _homophobic_ , or something. That's what they're saying’.

I swallowed sharply and pulled my finger away from the running tap and grabbed for the kitchen roll. It was spongey; felt _expensive_. I was used to the papery thin crap of my own apartment. It was funny, I hardly missed my home at all. I wondered what Mrs Kauer, my landlady, thought of my sudden disappearance. Had you had men in black swoop into my flat to remove Caleb’s body and place it elsewhere?

I turned toward you, eyes squeezed shut for a moment and banishing such thoughts, before opening them and sidling up next to you. You did not step away or stiffen. Progress, I guess. ‘Don’t you have to be up very early tomorrow?’ I inquired, head tilted up to you, as I poured some oil into the frying pan.

You considered me with a lowered, sideways glance. With your sleeves rolled up and your suit-jacket gone, you appeared more domestic than I had ever seen you. ‘I seldom sleep more than five hours in a night’.

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Gross’.

‘Indeed’.

That earned a smile from me, and I ducked my head upon seeing a slight twitch of yours.

We cooked quietly after that, you and I. With the fresh pasta, it took no more than fifteen minutes to heat up the salmon and add garlic and basil to the mushrooms, before I was scooping the food into the bowls and you were carrying them toward your polished table. We sat as we usually did, with you at the head of the table and me to your right.

‘How are you?’ you asked, quiet and without looking up to me. I wondered if you were uncomfortable asking me such a question, with how intently you were looking into your bowl of pasta.

I swallowed and shrugged. ‘I am sad,’ I replied, unwilling to share anymore. ‘How…’ I breathed in, noting that my pause drew you attention up to me. With a straightening back, you look down your nose at me and cocked a brow. ‘I don’t know how to deal with grief. _Guilt_. How did-?’

Understanding lit up your blue eyes. ‘How did _I_?’ I nodded, eyes wide and expectant. An almost bitter smile came across your features. ‘One would suggest I did not _deal,_ Miss Carter’. My eyelashes fluttered, and I offered you a sad, tired smile before going back to my food. After a long pause, filled only with the clattering of fork against china, you spoke again. ‘I would like to take you somewhere tomorrow evening. Would you be…willing? I understand that…’ You trailed off, and a smile tugged at my lips as I look expectantly at you. You seemed to be _struggling_.

‘This really is your worst nightmare, isn’t it?’ I joked, and I shocked even myself with the laughter in my tone. Your lips twitched into a smirk, gaze jumping. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t burst into tears on you, sir. And, yes. Of course. Can I ask where? Scotland Yard?’

Your expression flattened into a nondescript one. ‘Not quite’.

I did not think of the funeral, of Caleb, of Andrew, or of my parents for those few seconds. I thought of you, of the sparing kindness you showed me, of the uncomfortable manner in which you worked around myself, as if so unused to this kind of companionship.

_Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her._


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly love you guys, your comments are making my life these days. Hope everyone is staying safe, and thank you to our key workers! You're holding the world together in this shitty time.

I woke up the next day with a hankering to watch something, _anything_ , and so I slid out of the comfortable confines of the bed and pulled my laptop from my suitcase. I felt lethargic and lazy in a way that I welcomed, knowing that I would not have to pull myself from my funk for another few hours.

I didn’t know the password for your WIFI, so I settled with one of the few films I had downloaded onto my laptop. In the end, I decided on _Jaws,_ because what better way to soothe me than a film about a rabid shark? I curled around my laptop, pyjamas soft against my skin, and dozed in and out of sleep with the crackling quality of the 80’s moving lulling me.

I thought as I dozed, fingers tapping over my phone every so often. _The Daily Mail_ article about Caleb had moved down the page, overtaken by political scandals. One article stood out to me, as the film credits rolls, about Sherlock Holmes. Interviews with people he had helped, and an article that dipped into the ‘loonies’ who still thought he was alive, over a year down the line.

I wondered what you thought of these idiots. I wondered if their insensitivity pissed you off.

I messaged my mum to tell her I was taking the day off of work, my mouth twitching into a frown at the guilt of the lie, and then messaged my dad to tell him to look out for mum, and that I would be posting a letter later that day for him to deliver to Caleb’s parents. His childhood home was only a five-minute drive from mine.

We would always walk to and from school together.

I would call that day a Good Day. I did not cry, nor did I panic. I was _quiet_ ; I felt at one with what I was doing. After the _Jaws_ ended, which I had barely watched, I yawned as I stood up, and decided that I would put the clothes I had brought with me into the large oak wardrobe to the right of the bed.

It seemed _right_.

I did just that, my phone strumming out a quiet pull of piano music, sitting on the bed that I had made (a habit from my job - my _old job_ ). The wardrobe smelt both new and old, I wavered a guess that no one had ever used it before. I hung up the few clothes I had brought, from white dress, to crinkled shirts, to the two pairs of jeans.

I pushed my suitcase into the corner of the room, and it sagged slightly with the emptiness. I breathed in, twitched the curtains open over the long window, and stood in the room that I was becoming more used to. In the first few days, I would tiptoe, as if my presence in the house could be hidden.

I cleaned around the sink in the bathroom, propped my toothbrush upright and washed my face before showering and sitting the bottles of conditioner, shampoo and bodywash in a neat row. Order, my mum would tell me, helped with stress. If you have a clean room, you have a clean mind. I would often call bullshit to the ideology, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

I pulled my wet hair into a tight bun and changed into dark jeans and a white t-shirt, deciding that if I was going to write this letter for Caleb’s parents, now would be as good a time as ever. I tucked my phone into my pocket, threw a small bag across my body, and slipped on my trainers.

It took me a good while to find a pen and paper in your house, and I spent a good few seconds standing outside of the doors to the further end of the house, of which I assumed were your bedroom and an office, amongst others, wondering if I should try and test if they were locked. Surely, _you_ would have an office. You seemed the type.

It was when I stood there, chewing my lip, that my mind wandered to you awakening in the morning or slipping into bed at night. That part of our lives stood in stark separation. Usually, you would bid me farewell in the evenings. The night before, I had yawned so loudly after our dinner, still dopey from my nap on your sofa, that you had backhandedly _told me_ to go to bed in that _way_ of yours.

I thought of you changing, for a just a split second, from your sleep clothes and into your three-piece suit, fingers doing up your buttons, straightening your tie, fitting your jacket over broad shoulders-

I marched downstairs with cheeks flushed and stomach whirling. It felt… _different_ to think of _you_ like that. You were not the boys of my youth, with their kisses and touches stolen on nights and lazy days well over a year ago. I had never had a major interest in relationships, nor the need to _hold_ someone near me. Though, not, I am sure, in the slightly worrying way _you_ did. Still, I felt I needed to be careful in the way I thought about you.

You were Mycroft Holmes.

You were… _rare_.

-

I wrote the letter quickly, using a fountain pen and thick paper that likely cost more than my clothes. The letter was brief and as heartfelt as I could muster, with use of Caleb’s parents first names, my condolences, and my phone number should they need any help whatsoever.

I wondered if they would ask me to speak at the funeral. The thought made my stomach turn.

Deciding that I would need to leave the house to buy new underwear (you did not have anything to wash clothes with, and I figured you had a drycleaner somewhere in London), I pushed myself out of the front door with letter in hand, intent upon facing the world.

The sky was a stormy grey, and the walk to the tube was spent with my head ducked low and my hand tight around the strap of my bag. I paused for a moment outside of the tube station, remembering my fast beating heart, my thumping footsteps and my watery eyes those long days ago.

The tube was quiet, considering the time of day, and I had been thankful.

I grasped the red pole at every stop, careful to not trip over my own feet, and practically bolted the moment I reached Oxford Circus. As usual, Oxford Street was busy, despite it being a weekday, and I melted into the bustle with ease. I felt a little less like myself, like I could be like _them_ ; the people who knew nothing of murder or a life with _you_. I felt like the cleaner girl who lived in the shitty flat for a moment, and not the…the friend of the _British Government_ , the girl who killed the _Question Mark Killer_ , the girl who could have been his last victim.

It was momentarily refreshing.

I ran into a Post Office, bought a set of stamps, and posted the letter through a red-letter box opposite a Tour Bus Office, before ducking into _Primark_ , intent upon using my last couple of hundred sparingly. I grabbed a pack of black underwear, a few pairs of white socks, a strappy black shirt, and loose black dress, similar to my white one. Anything that would be easy to paint in, to lounge in, to start my life up again in.

I considered that you would have people watching me, texting you to tell you that I had left the house, and realised that I didn’t care. It was odd, to enjoy the idea of being looked after, after so long alone. If it was anyone else doing so, I might have shrunk away from the control; the annoying watchful eye.

I thought this as I walked around the crowded, large shop and toward the long row of tills, and then I heard my name being called.

I turned, cringing at being recognised, and then my heart all but _failed_.

It was one of Caleb’s friends. The one who I knew the least, who had been there the night I first met Andrew Galloway. I struggled for a moment, heart in my throat, and he offered a smile, standing a foot behind me. He looked well, albeit a little ruffled.

He took my aghast expression as loss for his name, because he offered, ‘Matthew,’ not in the slightest bit offended at my lack of remembering his name. His stepped a little closer, out of the way of a man and his buggy. ‘Hi, er, how’re you doing?’

We both knew what he meant, and I snapped my mouth shut after gaping for far too long and swallowed thickly. I squeezed the pack of black underwear in my hands, shuffled so that the dress slide over my arm, hiding them from few and stifling my panic. ‘I’m-’ I stopped, huffed a strangled laugh, and replied. ‘Not great,’ I settled with.

He smiled, this Mathew, in a sad manner that I was becoming horribly used to. ‘I know,’ he agreed, voice hushed amongst the loud chatter of the shop. ‘It’s fuckin’ awful, isn’t it? Bastards who did it need to get caught and I just…Jesus, people at work don’t know what to think’. He shook his head. I wondered how many time he’d had that conversation.

I squeezed the package tighter. ‘It doesn’t feel real,’ I admitted, because it seemed the only truthful thing I could say. ‘I didn’t see him much, the last few weeks, and then he’s _just_ -’

Mathew nodded. He didn’t need me to say. _And then he’s just gone._ ‘Yeah, I know. Mad. Have you seen the road where it happened, in Clapham? It’s fucking amazing what people have done, y’know. There’re flowers all along the corner, pride flags, the lot. They think it was because, y’know, he was _gay’_. Mathew had blown air of his mouth, eyes narrowed as he shook his head. ‘Fuckin’ animals’.

My throat spasmed.

_That’s not what happened. He was murdered by Andrew Galloway, the man who had been killing young women with full lives ahead of them up and down the South of England. Caleb didn’t die because of who he was, he died because of me. Because some sick bastard chose **me**. Now nobody knows who Andrew Galloway is, because the man protecting my name from the media ensured that his was buried, too. And it’s awful, and I am awful, and you’re all so lucky you get to live this lie-_

‘Are you _alright_ , Ophelia?’

I nodded, jerkily, blinking back into life, and blurted out, ‘Yeah, sorry. Look, I really gotta… _go_. I’ll probably see you at the, um, the funeral, or something. Yeah. Sorry. _Bye’_. I turned sharply on my heel, marched for the tills, and shoved the shirt and underwear at the poor man on the other side with wild eyes and hot cheeks. The man dipped his head forward, murmured something to me, but I was already tapping my phone on the checkout and darting out of the shop.

I bumped into people with little care, momentarily overwhelmed with the buzzing in my head and the numbness starting at my fingers. I shove my purchases, along with my receipt, into my bag and shoved myself into the people walking briskly up and down Oxford Street, my chest heaving, my eyes watering, my heart beating in my ears.

I felt as if I was falling, heaving, staggering to _breathe_. _You’re not_ , I assured myself, whirling in my own head, pushing past the exit of the shop and along the wall. _You’re okay. Breathe._

When my phone rang and buzzed in my palm, I did not look to see who it was. I knew it was you. I slid the icon across the screen and pressed it to my ear, my head ducked to avoid others seeing my state, and pushed myself into a crevice in a shop, where the window displayed an array of children’s clothing.

Your voice was hard and commanding, a breath of fresh air that I needed. ‘ _Breathe_ ,’ you said, sharply. I faced the window, my free hand pressed against my forehead, and heaved in a breath, and it caught in my throat, and my heart _hammered,_ and all I could think was, _at least you still haven’t cried today._

The feeling was overwhelming and horrible and like nothing I had experienced before, and I could see _him_ sprawled at the bottom of the metal staircase, eyes unblinking and blood pooling around him, and I felt _sick_ because I wanted to do it again and again because Caleb was _dead_.

I almost forgot you were on the phone pressed to my ear, until you snapped, loud and precise, ‘Ophelia. _Breathe_!’

With a great heaving breath through my nose, I did. My eyes pricked with panic, and my free hand pressed against my chest, where the puckered wound felt rough.

‘Again,’ you ordered. Behind me, the world went on, loud and fast, but here, as I faced the window with my head ducked and you pressed to my ear, I felt the mess turn to some kind of clarity. ‘Deeply. Good. Now, follow my _exact_ directions and walk as fast as you can. If you feel as if you are losing control, you will halt. Do you understand?’

I complied, and the oxygen in my brain allowed me to feel the stupidity for my reaction. ‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ I said, and I was shocked at the dry sob in my voice. It felt like every time my heart thudded, my breath would catch sharply in my chest. I thought for a second I might really pass out.

‘Nonsense,’ you replied, in that emotionless and factual way that only you could pull off, and I was so entirely thankful for it. ‘You will turn left at the top of the road ahead of you and cross over to the other side. There are a group of tourists approaching - you need to _breathe_ slowly. You are breathing _far too quickly’._

It was getting better. The panic attack, because I know that’s what it had been, had subsided into breathless panic and a dizzy spell from my thudding art. I realise it could have been much worse, but to someone who had never experienced a panic attack, it was…awful.

‘Left again - yes. Good girl’. My heart stuttered, but for all of the wrong reasons, and I squeezed my eyes shut at the knowledge you were likely watching me; that I had torn you away from your job yet again. I saw it then. The sleek black car. Waiting for me. ‘I will see you shortly’.

And you were gone.

-

I sat shakily in the car and raked my fingers through my hair, which had dried in messy, uneven waves due to the tight bun. I felt woozy, like you do at the end of a terrible hangover, where the sickness has passed, and you’re left with a stuttering heartbeat from too many jagerbombs the night before, and a dizziness from lack of sleep.

The car sped along, stopping and starting at traffic, and I bowed my head and thought of _Matthew_. How could I go to the funeral, when I would face so many like him? How could I face Caleb’s parents, knowing that I had been the one to cause the death of their son? They thought he had died because of _who he was_ , but that wasn’t it at all.

For the first time since that day, I felt a pang of _fucking happiness_ that I had pushed Andrew Galloway down those stairs. It was a relief to feel something other than guilt. _And then_ I worried that this was bad. Should I feel this way? Was it not human to feel a twinge of bad upon taking another’s life?

I slumped in the backseat of the car you had sent for me and groaned loudly, fingers steepled against my forehead and chest aching for my earlier choked breaths.

‘Are you alright, ma’am?’

The voice had been staticky, as if coming over a speaker, and I jumped at the sound of it, before assuring the driver that I was fine, my voice high-pitched and sharp. I felt jittery, and a little sick, and understood why people would say that a panic attack made one feel like they were about to _die,_ with a complete detachment from the world.

I was beginning to feel the latter; almost as if in a dreamlike state of tiredness.

It took me five seconds longer than it should have to realise that the car had stopped, and another to realise that I was heading, most likely, _to you._ The whole ride I had been trying to calm myself down, that I had only half-remembered that it was on _your orders._

I peered through the window, heart thumping, and saw a large white building, beautiful and, even from the outside, obviously not a place I would usually frequent. I rubbed my forehead, swallowing away the dryness in my throat and the remaining jittering in my bones, and all but jumped out of fucking skin when the door suddenly opened.

And there you were.

A displeased expression graced your features, only minutely different from the expression you usually wore. It was easy to see, now that I knew you better. Just a slight downturn of your mouth and an iciness to your gaze. Words failed me as you looked down on me, a dark grey sky behind you, and I jerkily took your hand when it was offered.

You were warm.

Later, I would realise what an entirely big step this was for you.

I did not miss the way your fingers clenched and unclenched rapidly when I stood before you, balanced on the pavement and your hand dropped away from mine, and I all but blurted out, ‘I shouldn’t be this much of a hindrance to you, sir-’

Your expression flattened. ‘I have dealt with far worse. Come, and _stay silent_ until I tell you otherwise’. You were wearing your beige suit, I noticed shakily. You half turned around, and then suddenly looked back at me. I was so caught off guard that I nearly fell into the black car that was pulling away but straightened myself up quickly. Blue eyes scanned me, critical and glaring, and then you said, ‘You have stopped… _that_ , then. Good’.

A laugh broke out of me, high-pitched and short, and you looked mildly alarmed. I swallowed and wished that I could curl into a ball and sleep. ‘I’d like to sit down,’ I said, swaying on my feet. ‘Is that alright?’

The building you led me through was near deserted, but beautiful. It reminded me of your home, only lighter and brighter, with chairs dotted everywhere and archways leading off to larger rooms. As we walked past one of them, I peered in, only to see one elderly man sitting near the fireplace, a newspaper in hand. He paid no mind to our quiet footsteps.

I scuttled close behind you, hand gripping the strap of my bag. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly underdressed in my jeans and white t-shirt and was sure I looked awful. In your house, I did not mind, but here, out in the open, where others could see me next to you…I was only starkly reminded of how different we were.

You walked with a straight back and shoes clacking, a strength to your shoulders a height to your chin that I envied. I only ever really felt confident, the kind of confidence that you carried, when I was painting. Lately, even that had diminished.

You stopped at a double door down the corridor we had been walking, tucked into a corner, and with a swipe of something I could not see, you paused, as if waiting for something. I sidled up next to you, mouth clamped shut, and turned to you as you turned to me. Your gaze flickered down, and I guessed that you were looking at my death grip on the strap of my bag and I unclenched my fingers quickly.

With a dip of your chin, your eyes flashed to mine. With a slow blink and a twitch of my mouth, I tried to convey that I felt _better_. The quiet, somehow, made a conversation like that seem only more intimate.

I jumped a little when the doors spread, revealing a bloody _lift,_ and you indicated for me to step in, before you did the same, and the doors slid shut.

I turned to you. You huffed through your nose, hands behind your back, and eyes trained on the now closed doors. ‘I cannot quite explain why I have brought you here, so, please, do me this _goodwill_ and abstain from asking such an inept query’.

I gave a flat smile, anxiety making me fidgety. ‘You brought me here because you were concerned about me’. You turned to me, mild alarm in your eyes, and I followed quickly with, ‘I’ve never had a panic attack before’. I looked, then, at the ground, almost as if in thought. The lift stilled. ‘It was pretty appalling’.

Even as the lift doors opened, you stared at me, stiff and rigid like a statue, before turning swiftly out of the lift and into a small space, which, when we rounded the corner, opened into a square and spacious office.

‘Is this your office?’ I asked, feeling very insignificant amongst the stone walls, the dim lighting, and the rigid looking furniture.

You turned to me, already at your desk with fingertips flattening against the stone, and replied, ‘One of them, yes’. I nodded, not surprised. It was as if you pulled a scene from a James Bond movie and plonked me into it. ‘Sit, please,’ you asked, and I did as, my back pressed into the uncomfortable seat as you took your place opposite me.

You stared. I blinked. You swallowed. I tilted my head. ‘I’m feeling better now,’ I supplied, filling in the gaps that I was beginning to understand you could not ask. ‘The man, Matthew,’ I said, knowing that you probably somehow knew about this. ‘He was a friend of Caleb’s’. My voice hitched. ‘I’ve only seen… _you_ , really, and coming out of my _comfort zone_ to people who knew Caleb and who I have to lie to…I guess it was not as easy as I thought it would be’. I offered a tight smile.

You stared. ‘I see’. Carefully, you folded your fingers in front of you, gold ring glinting in the light. ‘If you feel such an attack coming on again, I would request you attempt to contact me, either through my personal number, or through Anthea’.

Warmth flooded through me, and I nodded. I was becoming greedy for this…this safety you offered me. Was I selfish for taking it, after so long of being so _alone_? I could not decide, but I also could not care. After a moment, I said, ‘This seat is very uncomfortable’.

Your mouth twitched. ‘It was in an attempt to ensure visitors would not say very long’.

My mouth dropped in genuine surprise at that one. ‘That’s _excellent’_.

‘A secret I am sure you will not divulge freely’. Your mouth twitched yet again, and I was beginning to understand that such a thing was savoured for actual amusement, whereas that smarmy smile you sometimes wore was not.

‘Where _are_ we, anyway?’ I clung onto the distraction, the cool tone of your voice, the things you would tell me that I would never normally know.

You leaned back in your seat; brow raised. ‘There are many men in London who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows’. I smiled slightly at that, something of which you caught. ‘Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the _Diogenes Club_ was started, by me a few others. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the _Stranger's Room_ , no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion’.

I gazed at you. ‘I honestly think that might be the most upper-class thing I have ever heard of’.

Your mouth twitched. ‘Then do not let me tell you of the goings on at _White’s_ ’.

‘I dread to think’. I could see you _looking_ ; eyeing me and deducing me to find any remnants of my earlier attack. It had started and happened so fast that the only thing I felt was wavering anxiety and tiredness. ‘How has your day been?’ I asked, awkwardness coming to the forefront, now that I realised fully you had brought me all the way here and…now what?

You did not answer my question, but instead said, ‘Andrew Galloway _deserved_ to die, Miss Carter’. I missed, for a moment, you calling me Ophelia over the phone. I snapped my mouth shut. You squinted at me as I stared at you. ‘Ah,’ you said. ‘But that is not the problem, is it? Quite the contrast, in fact’. Your expression turned almost lazy as you eyed me. ‘You feel no guilt’.

I withered under your gaze. ‘Do you _have_ to do this?’ I snapped.

Your eyes narrowed yet again, but this time in mild annoyance. ‘In my days in MI6, I was subjected to… _fieldwork_ , something I am not fond of. Such work required the… _elimination_ of guilty individuals, in rare cases. I can assure you; it should not distress you, Miss Carter, that you do not regret what happened to Mister Galloway’.

I stared at you, mouth agape, your words ringing in my ears. ‘I’m sorry, your days in _what_?’ You rolled your eyes and did not answer. ‘Andrew Galloway was a murderer and rapist, and he would have done both to me,’ I muttered, hands wringing in my lap. You sniffed sharply. ‘I know it’s not _terrible_ that I don’t feel guilt, but…but I’m going to have to go to Caleb’s funeral, and no one there will _know_. They all think it was because he was gay, and that’s what he’s going to become, isn’t he? Another face for brutal attacks like _that_ , not one of _his victims’._ I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter’.

You shifted in your seat. ‘But it does,’ you said, carefully. ‘To you’. I looked up, meeting your clenched jaw and hard gaze. Your words left me a little breathless, and we looked at each other for a long moment, before your brow furrowed and your fingers clenched against your desk. ‘I have more work to do, only a short amount, and then I would… _enjoy_ taking you to-’ Your nose wrinkled, and despite the situation, I smiled widely, tiredly, bemusedly. The motion felt foreign on my face after so many days. Your mouth snapped shut and you _stared_.

‘Oh, yes,’ I hummed, taking pity on your struggle. ‘The mystery _excursion_. Do you want me to wait outside? Or-’

You mouth tightened. ‘I believe you may send some of the gentlemen of the Diogenes Club to an early grave, were you to venture upstairs. You may rest on the sofa, if you would like. Panic attacks often cause hormone adrenaline to flood into your bloodstream, putting your body on high alert, and the adrenaline levels in the body can spike. You are likely…tired’.

I gave a tight smile to stifle my laugh. ‘Yes, thank you, Doctor’.

As I stood and made my way to the sofa, phone in hand, you only sent me a withering look, before opening your laptop.

‘You are aware,’ you said, as I settled into the comfortable leather, legs curling beneath me. ‘That you did not need to go and purchase… _undergarments_. You could have simply asked me to contact my drycleaner’.

I blushed scarlet and replied, ‘Please, stop talking’.

I might have caught you smile.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this might seem a little rushed, but I was trying to show how whirlwind it was for Ophelia. Soft!Mycroft for a little. Don't get too used to it!  
> Hope everyone is safe xxx

You know this part. The final part of the beginning, I like to refer to it in my head. I’m an artist, remember? I can be quite dramatic like that.

That day, as we walked out of the Diogenes Club and into the spattering rain, you had blown your umbrella up and cast it over both our heads, and I had not known that would be the last day I would see you for seven months.

I huddled close to you under the umbrella, careful to not invade your space too much, and was overwhelmed the smell of _you_. I flailed in my own head when your usual car pulled up and you stepped forward to open the door for me, my eyes meeting yours as you hovered near me to do so, and I am quite sure my mind entirely imploded.

‘Thank you,’ I bit out, cheeks hot as I tried not to fall into the car in the slight drizzle. I thought as you stepped into the car, wet umbrella placed on the floor between us, of the first time I had been in this car. It seemed like a lifetime ago and, I supposed, it was.

The car moved, and I guessed you had already given your driver directions as to where we were going. I did not bother asking you, and I suppose it was because I was quite looking forward to the surprise; the mystery. I figured it was not often you were able to do something like this.

I placed my bag on my lap, and with a glance out into the sea of people on the street who held umbrellas over their heads, said quietly, ‘I’m going to begin painting again soon, sir. I don’t want you to think that I-’

‘Whatever you about to say,’ you had cut in, not bothering to look my way. ‘Is likely not what I am thinking at all. I have confidence in the fact that you will now gain a career from your talent’. A pause. ‘I would also ask that you call me Mycroft’. I turned to you, mouth pinched into a small smile, as you looked to consider me with a level gaze. ‘You are no longer under my employment and have not been for some time’.

I tried very hard to control the heat in my cheeks, and I would like to remind you that I was on the other side of a panic attack. Doing something so out of character for you was surely not good for my health at that point. ‘Then you’ll call me Ophelia’.

The corner of your mouth twitched, before flattening quickly. ‘As you wish’.

I smiled. Then, a thought struck me, and I wondered if your good mood meant it would be a good time to broach the more intimate questions. Well, intimate for _you_. I decided to push away the worry of sounding dumb and went for it.

‘Your favourite song is Requiem in D minor, K. 626,’ I said, feeling stupid the moment I said it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw your brow curve in an almost mocking manner. ‘And I saw, on your bookshelf, that _The Brothers Karamazov_ has more creases in the spine than your other books. Does that mean it’s one of your favourites?’ You looked mildly perturbed. I smiled a little self-consciously. ‘I know it’s a very human thing to do, but I am trying to get to know you sir - _Mycroft’_.

‘I see’. You did not hide the grimace, and I bit my cheeks to stop from snorting. ‘It is. Yes’.

I nodded. ‘Okay’, and then went to glance out of the window.

There was a small pause, and then, ‘I additionally find myself enjoying _The Silmarillion,_ something of which my brother would often mock me for’.

 _Knew it._ I snorted quietly, turned to you, and responded with, ‘I was _scandalized_ to see that you’ve read it. You don’t seem like the type to enjoy fiction’. You tilted your head in agreement. ‘I’ve read _Lord of the Rings,_ but never _The Silmarillion._ I’d like to, really’.

‘Then you may borrow any one of my books’.

I looked at you, truly looked at you, and said, without thinking, ‘Why do you _trust_ me?’ It was something that had been at the back of my mind for a long time, and I couldn’t quite place why you did. The helping me, I had squeezed the reason out of you, but this? This trust to allow me in your house alone, to use your precious possessions, to help me in setting up a career for myself - it was not something you _did_.

I seemed to have surprised you for the first time ever. Your mouth shut, your fingers curled on your lap, and your nostrils flared. I plucked up the bravery to stare at you, not backing down. Something relaxed in your expression, almost as if you were giving in. ‘Simply because I _do’_.

I nodded, took the answer, and that was that until we pulled up outside of a row of buildings in a part of London I recognised: Shoreditch. I glanced to you, and you avoided my gaze, up until we both stepped out of the car and into the spitting rain. The sidewalk glistened, dirty and wet, and I peered at you curiously as you ushered me toward the cleanest door of the three in front of us.

In spray paint, on the wall next to the door, was the name of the building. _Evolution Gallery._

Even when I said your name, quietly and with some trepidation, you ignored me entirely. I stepped up onto the step with you, palms sweating at the thought of being inside a Shoreditch Art Gallery. This was where artists came to _make it,_ to spell their name in the streets of London in all forms of art. I would usually not be able to afford _entry_ to one of these places.

There was a narrow staircase on the other side of the door, which you opened without need of a key, and the lighting was moody, with flares of pink and green amongst the aged photographs. Very, _very_ Shoreditch. Almost painfully millennial.

I fucking _loved_ it.

‘That’s an Annie Leibovitz,’ I muttered, both awed and overcome at the larger of the photographs above the staircase. ‘Mister Holmes - _Mycroft_ -’

‘Do be quiet,’ you murmured, already traipsing up the stairs with your umbrella swinging from your arm. I scowled and followed; the horribleness of the day cast aside. You had brought me to an Art Gallery, and my politeness and nervousness was near overwhelming. This was _too kind._

The top of the stairs opened into an archway, which opened into an entirely different kind of a room; a _hall_ , really. The walls were high and white, and dividers had been built to hang an array of photographs, paintings and clothing. In some places, pieces of paper reciting words of the artist were pressed against the white walls, with titles and names following beneath.

You did not allow me to look for long, but marched forward with a swing of your umbrella, almost as if to say _follow me._

I did, fingers curled around the strap of my bag and head swinging back and forth as I took in the paintings. Faces, bodies, _people_. I saw a sign, large and in chalk, reading the words: _The Body._ An exhibition, so different from the very _proper_ one we had spoken at, long, long ago.

Your footsteps echoed in the empty room, and I wondered if you had ensured that no one would be here with us. The thought did not shock me, and I speculated when I had grown so used to what you could do with power and money. I followed you until you stopped, quite abruptly, around a corner and down the main section of the hall, where paintings faced the centre, where I assumed a bar would be put as some point.

I was so busy looking around, taking in the beauty, that I barely caught you looking at me. When I did, I blinked, smiled rather awkwardly, only to have you roll your eyes and sigh, before looking pointedly at the blank space in front of us.

I looked at the wall, and all but choked on my own saliva.

 _Eyes - by Ophelia Carter_ , the plaque read.

Realisation dawned, and I thought of the painting you had seen of mine. _The Eyes_ , the eyes of the victims, of me, of _them_. I swallowed after a moment, shock and tension fluttering a hummingbirds heartbeat into my ears. ‘You _didn’t_ \- why - sir, this is too _much_ -’

You stood beside me, tall and dark and stark against the colour and art, and rested your umbrella with a clack on the stone floor. ‘It is precisely enough,’ you mused, and I saw you dip your head to look at me. ‘I assured a start in your vocation, and this is it. Every two months, this Gallery will be holding an exhibit, financed by an…associate. I believe this month is _The Body_ , followed by _Local Inspiration_ , then _Inspired by Great Artists_ and finally, _The_ _Earth_ ’. You paused, still as ever, and I turned to your with a very attractive gape. Your jaw was tight, and I spied after a moment _unsureness_ etched into the corners of you. ‘You have been assured this exact spot at each exhibition. I thought, for the first, your painting of eyes would be fitting’.

I twitched into life. ‘What. _No’_.

Your brow twitched. ‘I assure you, _yes’_.

I gaped, gawked, _ogled._ It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me, and I remember feeling…overwhelmed with emotion. A single emotion, I am sure, though I could not name it at the time. I stared at you, with your three-piece suit and your never-changing expression, and people thought you were cold. And, really, I supposed you were. I knew it then, and I had no pretence that you were not an arrogant, selfish, pompous man.

And yet. And _yet_.

You were so entirely exquisite to me.

I took on step forward, fingers uncurling from my death-grip, and you did not move. You eyed me, stiff and mouth pressed tight, and I sighed loudly before all but launching at you, arms pushing yours aside to _hug you._

For a split second, I wondered if you had really turned into a sculpture.

You were hard and unmoving and smelt amazing, but then you softened, your arms moved, and you were hugging me, hands pressed flat against my back, chest moving beneath my head, and a long sigh tickling the roots of my hair.

Silence reigned for only a short time.

‘Thank you,’ I muttered, not knowing quite what else to say. How much had this cost? What thought had gone into this? I was starting to understand that knowing me as well as you did was not enough, your need to please me meant only one thing: you too saw me as a _friend_. ‘You know we’re friends, right?’

You huffed and breathed, and you smelt like your home, like wood, like faint cigarettes, and like bundles of fabric. You were uncomfortably stiff under my fingertips, but you compliance to wrap your arms around me and put yourself near to me was all that I needed. I had not realised how much I missed touch until now. ‘I came to such a conclusion myself, yes’.

I scoffed and pulled away from you, from your warmth and your smell and _you_ , and was more than happy to find that you did not retract yourself quickly. You leaned away, the edges of your soft, and I did not miss the rise and fall of your chest, faster than usual. Were you like me, I wondered, and touched starved without even knowing it?

This close, I could see the wide expanse of your pupils, the crook in your nose, and the softness of your skin. In that moment, despite what people called you, what they saw, I decided that you were lovely.

Your fingers trailed over my arm as we moved apart, oh-so slowly, and your touch was fire and I might have been ice. Iceman, they called you, but you had only ever given me warmth.

It was at that moment that your phone buzzed in your pocket, and I stepped solidly away from you, knowing that whatever a phone call for you meant, it would be important. You work was something that still terrified me, and I felt so utterly useless along with it. You were a genius, what the hell did you want with me? You complied with a nod toward me, before stepping away and answering the phone with a curt, ‘What?’

I turned to the space before me as you dipped into the shadows, to the white expanse that would soon hold my painting; _their painting._ It was for them, I decided. Their eyes, so angry and upset, would be what people would see.

I glanced at the other paintings in the large room, from the hands, to the shoulders dipped in the sea, to the palms spread wide. _The Body_ , the exhibit was called, and a thrill went through me at the thought of my name in here.

_And my heart did whisper that you had done it for me._

I stepped around, looking at the few paintings and photographs that surrounded mine. Names of unknowns, like me, who had found somewhere to hang their work. A thrill went through me, and I reminded myself when guilt swept in that Caleb would be pleased for me. He _would_.

Minutes later, footsteps rang, and I knew immediately that they were not yours. With a curious glance behind me, I saw a broad man, with a pultruding belly around his expensive black suit, and he stopped the moment I turned to him. ‘Ma’am,’ his voice rang, and I recongised him to be your driver. ‘Follow me, please’.

-

Do you know how stressed I had been, Mycroft?

I stood in a flat, _hours_ later, with my face pale, my stomach twisted, and my head aching. The conversations I’d had, first with the driver, and then with Anthea, who had appeared at your house only seconds after my arriving there, still rung in my head.

_‘I don’t understand, where has Mister Holmes gone?’_

_‘That is confidential’._

_‘Anthea-’_

_‘You have a flat in Notting Hill that is yours. Go there, the driver will take you, and I will explain to you later’. She had eyed me, struggling to bring herself to say something else, before softening and settling with, ‘He’s made sure you’re going to be alright, Miss Carter. Trust me. I will explain everything, but right now I have my job to do’._

_‘Ophelia’._

_‘Yes’. Her smile turned tight. ‘Ophelia’._

And that had been that. I had packed my suitcase at yours, confusion and panic settling in, and left your home with no clue what was happening. You had not been there, you had gone, and the thought of what could be happening to the country to cause such an absence made my chest hurt. Should I have called my mum and dad, I wondered? Should I warn them of something impending?

The flat that I stood in was all white, open, with a modern kitchen, wooden floors, two bedrooms, and a view of the white house’s opposite. I could not understand what had happened. You had been in situations where you had left suddenly before, but my _relocation_ …it made me think that whatever had happened would last far longer.

I felt like a useless _lump_.

There was a knock at the door, and I jumped, whirled, and sped to answer it. I did not bother to look through the peephole, only Anthea could tap on the door in such a perfect manner. When I opened the door, she stood there, perfect as ever, and held out a yellow envelope to me, her expression blank.

‘It’s from him,’ she said, without waiting for me to greet her. She looked at me, up and down with a calculating gaze. She reminded me of you, sometimes. ‘Your things will be sent over from storage. Just…read it, will you? It answers any of the big questions you have’.

‘ _Will it_ , though?’ I asked, and my tone was sharper than I had meant for it to be.

Her mouth flattened. ‘Probably not, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know exactly who Mister Holmes is, and what he does. My job is to ensure that runs smoothly and, for now, yours is to do as I say’.

I blanched, ready to fight back, but Anthea was already going to leave, ignoring my lost expression as I held the letter, but stopped short. Her expression looked between one of annoyance and pity, and I hated it. ‘You know…his codename is _Antarctica’_. I blinked, mouth a little agape at this useless information, still standing there like a fucking idiot. She sighed. ‘He had a codename for _you_ ; for your surveillance. _Aurora’._

My mouth went quite dry, remember in my haze of confusion, an essay I had submitted in high school. _An Aurora is a natural electric phenomenon that creates bright and colourful light displays in the sky. In in the Antarctic Circle they are called Aurora Australis or the Southern Lights._ ‘Oh’.

Anthea cocked a brow. ‘Perhaps it was because of the colours, with you being a painter’. She eyed me; gaze hard. ‘Or maybe it was something else’.

I swallowed. ‘Maybe,’ I supplied, not quite believing any of it myself.

She hummed, flipped her phone out of her pocket, and without looking at me, said, ‘I’ll leave, now. I have a lot to do, with Mister Holmes gone. Remember, stay quiet and take advantage of all he’s left for you’. Her gaze flicked up. ‘That’s what he said for you to do. _Succeed. Stay safe_. I’ll be in touch _’_.

And then she was gone.

I stumbled into the flat, _my flat_ , a little hysterical and a little lost, and ripped open the letter without much care.

_Ophelia._

_Do try to reign in your proclivity for trouble and injury in my absence. I assure I will return, but to gain your trust as you have mine, I will tell you something of which I have kept from you; something of which I do think you should know. It is of the upmost importance that you burn this letter, or perhaps dispose of it in a less archaic manner, upon finishing it. I have faith you will do so promptly._

_My brother, Sherlock Holmes, is alive, and I am going to fetch him. I have known this always. I tell you this, so you appreciate that my leaving is not taken lightly, and to illustrate to you perhaps how much I irrefutably trust you. Do take all that is offered to you and think not of the guilt._

_I confess that I shall think of you often._

_Mycroft._

I stared at the letter, my hands shaking, my heart thudding, my cheeks hot from anger, from embarrassment, and from _feelings._

‘Idiot man,’ I muttered, before tearing the paper in two.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief chapter into Ophelia's life and rise in the absence of Mycroft! I'm impatient as hell and wanted to highlight things all in one chapter. Hope everyone is doing well and staying safe!

At six months since your absence, I believe I had lived up to expectations, both mine and yours, as best I could.

At the beginning, I slept rarely, so intent upon _painting, painting, painting._ The exhibition for _The Body_ had been filled with pretentious types, but others, too. I had lingered near my painting, speaking sparingly to those who took interest, and the next day, I had one-hundred new followers on my _Instagram_.

I had curled into the king-sized bed in my well-lit room, phone cradled in my hand as I posted a picture of the night before, taken by one of the staff, of me standing with my painting. I had a slight red glare in my eye and my cheeks were too flushed from two glasses of prosecco, but I looked happy in a way that I had not seen in the mirror in months. I tagged the gallery in the photo, to gain a follow from them and a repost on their page.

I missed you, in those first two months. It was like a pang in my chest, like the shoulder I lent on was now gone. I suppose, in some ways, it was good. My independence had been thrown back at me, along with the will to succeed. You had given me the tools, and it was now my chance to use them.

Two days after _The Body_ exhibition, was Caleb’s funeral. It had taken so long because of the autopsy, which stated that Caleb had, indeed, died from blunt head trauma.

I had swallowed my tears as I stared at the News report on the flat screen television, vowing that I would only honour him the best I could.

It had been a crowded affair, the funeral, filled with his friends, and ones I knew from school, as well as teachers, and friends of his parents. I did not speak, despite his mother’s suggestion, and I felt guilty for quite some time afterward. It was selfish, I knew, to give up the one thing I could give back to him, but I think Caleb might have snorted and laughed and told me that he wouldn’t want me stuttering through his funeral, anyway.

I wrote a speech and tucked it into a notebook, anyway; a notebook where I kept the tearing’s of another letter, only a small strip reading the words _I confess that I shall think of you often. Mycroft._

I thought of Caleb habitually, listened to old voicemails of his less frequently, and took the tube scarcely. The latter, because it reminded me so much of _that day_ that it made me sick to my stomach, but with my newfound freedom and income, I took _taxis_ on the few occasions I went out. As you’ll know, this was something my past frugal self would not once have dared to do.

I visited the Doctors once, three weeks after Caleb’s funeral and after too many sleepless nights filled with memories of pain in my chest, cold kisses to my mouth, and dead eyes staring at me, to get a small dosage of an anti-anxiety, that I took daily.

I figured I could not allow myself to wallow, to _fail_. I would be mortified, were you to come back, and I was _nothing_. Made myself sick, sometimes, worrying that I was not _doing enough._

I turned the second bedroom of the flat, _my flat,_ into a painting room. The words had made me giddy upon thinking them when I decided, on a rainy London day, to move my art supplies from the living room and into the spare room. Never in my life had I thought I would own somewhere with two bathrooms, let alone an _art room_. I filled it with the gifts you had bought me, faced the easel out toward the street, and piled canvases along a rack.

I kept the unfinished painting of yours underneath the wide window, a constant reminder that I would finish it when you returned, and only then.

The home you had given me was filled with things from my old, small flat. Pride in my home made it tidier, and I turned the tapestries I once hung from the walls of my old flat into coverings for the kitchen table, that sat in the adjoining living room and kitchen. I kept the curtains open to the fill the place with light and let Mozart to drift through the walls most days.

A week after your departure, I had come home to a box filled with books of yours sitting in my flat. You had got me too used to others infiltrating my space without permission, and I figured it had been Anthea, anyway. 

I tried to read _The Brothers Karamazov_. I hated it.

 _The Silmarillion_ , though, I loved.

I lined the shelf in my bedroom with the books, careful to keep them away from the sun, and stood in the kitchen often, thinking of you living in this place, so much younger than you were now. What had you been like, I wondered? An _arse_ , I’m sure.

The _Local Inspiration_ exhibit went better than _The Body_. I took inspiration from the London skyline, after taking a day to myself and looking at the City as I had not done in years; as a tourist. I snapped a shot from London Bridge on my phone, and painted the grey skies of the waning afternoon, the murky waters of the Thames, and the Houses of Parliament overlooking the swaying river. I painted it moody, sullen, _empty_. I realised on the fifth night of painting that this was how I saw London without you.

Three people had taken the small business cards that night, ones I had printed on a free app, listed with my name, my Instagram, and my _website_. Because I _had_ one. _OpheliaPaints._ I did. I _do_.

I had an income. I had people purchasing paintings that I created for fun, all of them available on _Etsy_ and my website. People did not ask me to paint for _them_ ; they looked at what I had created and _bought_. I was not well-known, not by any means, there were _so many_ others like me, but I had a small following, a career, and a _name_.

I like to think that it was all me, but I know that without you I would not have reached where I was.

It was months six into your absence that I received a sign that you were, in fact, _still alive_.

It was the night before the _Inspired by Great Artists_ exhibition, in which I had spent gruelling days and nights perfecting a mimic of my London skyline painting but inspired by _Starry Night_ by Van Gogh. I had been curled into bed, sleeping in the pyjamas you had gifted me, when my phone had vibrated at exactly 2:03 AM.

I blearily grabbed at it, stared at the _unknown number_ nametag flashing at me, and decided after sleepy thoughts that I should probably answer it. In the wake of my trying to actually do well in the painting game, I’d had to start answering the phone to strangers a lot more often. Not quite that late at night, admittedly, and the reminder of the last time I had received a text or a call at an ungodly hour was something I shook from my mind.

I swiped right, held the phone to my ear, and muttered a tired, ‘Hello?’ There was nothing, only silence, cold and stale, and I swallow and rubbed at my eyes. ‘… _Hello_?’ Curiosity peaked within me and I thought, _surely not._

There was a beat of silence, only a beat, but those few seconds had me sitting bolt upright, my mouth twitching into a frown, my free hand pushing my knotted hair from my face. I swallowed, mouth dry, and blinked into the darkness.

Saying your name might be dangerous if I was wrong, I knew, so remembering Anthea’s words from months before, I attempted a weak and hesitant, ‘… _Antarctica_?’

The silence stretched, and I felt so _stupid_ , and then…

There was a sound, almost a huff, and my heart jumped. You would often laugh at me like that, I knew. With a roll of your eyes and an upturn of your nose, your chest puffing as you scoffed at me. The line went dead, then, and I set the phone on my bedside table with smile on my face and a snort in my throat, disbelieving and overjoyed that you had contacted me at all.

I was quite pleased, at the same time, that you knew I had _known_ it was you. Because I was sure it had been, even with so little evidence.

The _Inspired by Great Artists_ exhibition was a busier event that the prior two, most likely due to the Banksy inspired graffiti artist who spoke at both the beginning and end of the event. I stood in my usual place the entire night, talking idly with those I recognised and trying my hardest to fit in, to say the right thing, to not make a fool of myself.

I even wore something not _ASOS_ branded, you’ll be pleased to know. _And_ not black. A silk shirt and jeans, because thank God the events were not posh and snobbish like the exhibition Caleb had taken me to. I don’t think I could pull off heels and a dress without somewhere there to catch me in case I fell.

I was proud of my piece, one of which I am sure had my sweat and blood sewn into the oil paint. I had named it the oh-so creative _London at Night_ , and at least twice the amount of people as usual stopped to admire it, and to inquire about any ways in which to contact me; to look at my work. I was, of course, getting pretty tired and embarrassed about stating that no, I did not have an agent and that yes, my website or _Instagram_ was the best way to contact me.

On top of the 5,000 pounds that had appeared in my account the day after _The Body_ exhibition, courtesy of you, I am sure, I was…comfortable with the money I was making through selling paintings. I had a found a calling with metaphors within paintings, with parts of the body and of nature. I painted London the most, and Americans seemed to _really_ dig that.

I lived off of the money you had given me for a long time, and eventually, made enough so that I could create a savings account. From that account, I once deposited into a _Go Fund Me_ just enough money for the family of Lilian Down _(Twenty-six-years-old. Fatal stab wound. Sexually assaulted. Ex-addict. Used painting in a rehabilitation programme to help her with her addictions)_ to help pay for her headstone. They had advertised it on Twitter, Facebook, and it eventually made its way to the media. Considering I had all of the News Apps on my phone _dinging_ at any time any of those women were mentioned, I had barely hesitated in donating the money anonymously.

Seeing as I had no rent to pay, other than utilities, I did not mind going back to my usual spread of cheap frozen foods for a few weeks. Not that I ate well, by any means. I tried to cook more, I’ll admit, and even treated myself to an overly priced _Wagamama_ cooking book.

You will have known all of this, I am sure. What I was doing in your absence, I mean, but it is important for me to say it, to spell it out to myself, too. Because, despite all of this, despite the love I had for what I did, for where I lived in Notting Hill, and for my growth in grief, I was so abysmally _lonely_.

I blamed you, almost entirely.

Not for leaving, no. I did not blame you for doing whatever it is you were doing, to go and find your lost brother. I blamed _you_ , Mister Holmes, for making me realise what lonely _was_. Before, in my small flat, filled with the scent of paints and incense, I was none-the-wiser to my lonely life, how touch-starved and lacking in conversation I had been.

I still thought of that hug. How PG-13.

I once lived in a pattern of sparingly seeing Caleb, and whatever friends he might introduce me to. The only habit I had kept up from that time was calling my mum, who was so entirely proud of me. I never told her about the exhibitions, though. I never did know how to explain to her that I now lived in a flat in Notting Hill that likely cost close to 700,000 quid, so I just…omitted it. I took the hour and a half train journey home, from time to time.

Six months of my life, laid it, and it all seems to tiny, now. So much had happened, and yet it can all be told in such a simple way, can’t it? You taught me that. Less is more; it is not always necessary to overexplain things.

Boring bastard.

-

It is easier to separate my missing you, and my thanks to you for all you did for me, and how fucking furious I was at you into two separate halves. Separating the good emotions from the bad emotions was something I learnt in healing myself after Andrew Galloway.

You allowed me to mourn in front of you, so openly and so raw, when, in actuality, your brother was not dead at all.

It is how I found myself, some nights, scrolling through the worryingly outlandish theories as to how your brother could have survived a fall like _that_. Some suggested it was actually the body of one Jim Moriarty, the terrorist and criminal who had shot himself, who fell. Some thought the two of them had been in on it together. Others simply accepted that he was, that the media had ruined him, and that he could not live with the lies and the shame thrown his way.

But you had told me different.

I had not believed it, for the first week of living in Notting Hill, my doors closed tight and my nerves a wreck.

And then I had remembered _you_.

You spoke of your brother in a way that indicated a turbulent relationship, yes, but you constantly reminded both myself and _yourself_ that the worry, the _care_ , that you had for me, was not a one-off experience. It was obvious to me, even when I thought him dead, how much you loved your brother.

It was not shock, really, that you would leave the world of London, of _British Government_ , behind, to go and find him.

I speculated so much that my head hurt from it; where would you have put him?

-

I _Googled_ for inspiration in the weeks coming up to _The Earth_ exhibition _,_ so much so that I was sure I would never start the piece. It was easing into Autumn, and you would think I could take inspiration from that. _Nothing_.

I was a blank canvas, and don’t think I miss the metaphor.

It was as I was standing in my painting room, the lights of London blinking through my window at well-past 12 in the morning, sipping my fourth cup of coffee, that I glanced down, froze, and realised what I had been missing.

_Your painting._

And it was as if everything fell into place in a split second, so fast that I nearly dropped my mug in my hurry to grab my paint brush and paints and _get going._ Fire and Ice, two of the greatest elements of Earth, and I had entirely missed the opportunity to finish the half-done painting that was for you. What better way to thank you in my own way, I thought, than to exhibit it?

I remember, not for the first time when gazing at the mix of icy blue and fiery red, the poem that had crept into my mind upon first beginning the painting, by Robert Frost.

I spent three nights in a row diving into the painting, annoyed at myself that I had been so lazy with it for so long. In your absence, I had seen no hurry in finishing it, and I was reminded one again of why I had picked blue, and why I had fallen a little in love with Mozart at all.

I painted the ice into a shape, with narrow edged that took up the left of the canvas; an iceberg melting, fraying, weeping into the crackling fire coming from the right. I dragged a pillow and quilt into the room, as well as my laptop, and slept there for three days straight, only tripping out to use the bathroom and to eat.

The oil paint rose thick off of the canvas, and I leant into it, eyes narrowed, fingers aching, and red and blue marring my cheeks and nose. My back ached from sitting so awkwardly on the faded blue stool I had found at Camden Market, but I paid it no mind, scared that if I stopped, I would lose all inspiration.

On that day, the day of the exhibition, _the day he returned,_ I stumbled into my living room, threw my painted and smudged self onto the sofa, and flicked on the television.

Do you know what the headline was?


	20. Chapter 20

Ophelia Carter?’

I smiled and nodded, used to the checking in of the artists at that point. Most of the time, I would have my painting delivered (by myself, because I did not have the money to send for a collection, and I quite enjoyed lumbering to the Gallery in a taxi) the day before the show. Circumstances involving my utter and complete lack of inspiration, as well as a request for more paintings of Trafalgar Square that had sold out on my website, had screwed that up.

I was on edge, more so than usual for the exhibitions held at the Shoreditch Gallery. My confidence had grown from months of conversation with other professionals, but that did not mean I was not a nervous wreck, even four exhibitions in.

‘Mad, isn’t it? Saw it on the News earlier this morning. Can’t believe he’s bloody _alive’_.

I ducked away from the conversation the receptionist had been having with a waiter, nerves frayed. My day, since the morning, had been spent avoiding thinking about why I had heard of this from the News, and not from you.

 ** _SHERLOCK HOLMES: ALIVE_** , the headline had read.

It was selfish and stupid to be so wrapped up in thoughts of this, when you likely had other pressing matters. And yet, I could not help but wonder how long you had been back in London, if you had returned with your bother at all. The News footage had shown him, this brother of yours, stalking out of his London home. Baker Street, I think it was.

I had gaped at the footage, grainy as it was, as he answered questions to the press, the man I vaguely knew to be John Watson at his side.

Your brother, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, alive and back in London.

It was one thing to hear it, but another to see it entirely.

I had cast aside any thoughts of bitterness, embarrassed and pissed off at my own weakness. You did not call me, and what of it? You had your brother back. Of course, I would be cast to the backburner for now. There were more pressing, more important matters to take care of. I spent the day instead preparing for the final night, dressing in long dark skirt, a transparent meshed top tucked beneath the waistband, and dangled the gold jewellery my mum and dad had bought me for Christmas over myself.

It was a risqué outfit, especially for me, but I reminded myself it was rare I got to dress _nice_ , and since I had made minimal effort at the first three events, I decided that I would at least try for the last.

Not only that, but the women and men, in all of their Shoreditch, in their designer branded clothes, made me feel like an unattractive potato.

At the exhibition, now into the familiar hall, I accepted the usual help of the staff in hanging up my painting, and preened under the genuine compliment the boy waiter, probably only eighteen, gave me. I could not help but _grin_ as he walked away, standing before my painting and reminding myself of how satisfied I was of what I had slaved over for the past few days.

I hastily rearranged the letters on the plaque given to me and stapled the poem I had brought with me to the right of the painting. _Fire and Ice - By Ophelia Carter,_ the plaque read, and I think the painting mirrored that exactly.

It reminded me of the end of the world, of new beginnings, of the poem itself and, I had begrudgingly admitted to myself, _me and you._

The thought had made warm the other day, but it in that moment it made me cold and annoyed and _brittle_. My final piece, the one I was most proud of, was only a stark reminder of you. You, who was likely back in London, who had not bothered to contact me. You, who I felt so stupid for being so annoyed at. Why should you contact me to let me know you were safe and home? How naive was I?

I stepped back and admired the poem, which I had handwritten painstakingly, having crumpled around five different pieces of paper with mistakes, and breathed happily though my nose.

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I’ve tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favour fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice._

  * _Robert Frost_



When people started filling in, eyes critical and hands filled with the free drink (well, free if you count the extortionate ticket price), I straightened up and forced myself to not pretend you might walk through that door to see exactly what I had done with the space you had procured for me.

I lived in a fantasy world at time, and I hated it.

I felt the difference this time, mostly in the questions asked by interested buyers, and I beamed at them, pushing aside uneasiness and eyeing the impressed smiles as guests walked past. A few eyes even flicked to the small number down the right of my painting, and I smothered my smile. If anyone wanted to buy one of the paintings on show, they told the receptionist the number.

I turned to look at my painting a few times, and though I was always _happy_ with something I created, I felt something beyond pride at this one. It had been over a year in the making, and I was quietly pleased, but bursting with pleasure on the inside.

It was toward the end of the night, when guests were laughing and talking loudly in their drink, and the last speaker had spoken at the centre of the room, that a young man in a pressed suit approached me, his smile and gaze making me straighten up and realise that he did not want to just look at my art, but _talk_ to me.

‘This is a lovely painting,’ he said, voice pitched with something that sounded like Italian. I could see the roots of European in him, from his dark eyes to his dark hair. His gaze slid from my painting and then to me. ‘Seven-thousand’.

I blanched. ‘I - _what_?’

His smile was a stoic, chilly. It gave off the act of warmth, but I could see something false behind it. Perhaps I was just good at spotting the liars. ‘For your painting,’ he corrected. ‘It stands out amongst the rest. I enjoy the… _blurred_ effect’.

I tried to remain polite but felt like pulling a face. For someone offering so much for my painting, he did _not_ know a lot about art. ‘You don’t even know how much it’s _valued_ at,’ I said, careful to not step into an accusatory, baffled tone. ‘Why on Earth would you spend that much on a painting from an unknown?’

The man had fixed the same smile on his face and tucked his hands behind his back. ‘Because I wish to’.

I balked.

_It was meant for you._

I struggled internally. _Seven thousand pounds._ That was…extortionate amounts. I still had much of what you had given me for my work in my savings, along with the few hundreds from selling online, but that amount of money…I could _expand_. I could give some to my parents, to help them build the conservatory they were saving for. I could begin to pay off my student debt _properly_.

And yet… _I had painted it for you._

I smiled tightly. ‘I’m sorry,’ I shook my head, fingers pulling at the fabric of my skirt. ‘The painting is not for sale’.

There was a minute change in the expression of the man. It might have been panic. ‘What? But I have offered you-’

‘A lot of money,’ I smiled, kind and oddly content. ‘The answer is no. I’m sorry but thank you’.

-

I paid special attention to keeping you out of my mind on the way home.

I was giddy with drink and happiness; with the knowledge that I had _done it_. I had completed four exhibitions with my own work, and the owner themselves had promised me and a select few others that they would contact us in the future for information on any of our future works. We would, she had stated, get a special mention in the brochure for the event.

I pushed thoughts of the loss of thousands from my mind, instead cradling the painting in the seat next to me, as the taxi driver glanced back with an amused smile. ‘Good night, love?’ I nodded, smiling widely, and did not even glare when his eyes trailed to the mesh cut of my top, where my cleavage peeked.

I tipped him less, of course.

And yet, still, I tried not to think of you, of Sherlock Holmes, of the fact that you had not bothered to contact me the entire day. I pushed away my offence, my lazy upset, right until I reached the entrance to my home.

There, in my flat that you had given me, there was only reminder of you; reminder of the one friend I had who was _gone_ and had not wanted to call me, to text me, to see me.

The moment I stepped into my flat, I felt something different.

It’s horrible, isn’t it, to step into your home and know that someone was there or _is_ there? It gives an uneasy feeling, one that I had felt in that moment. I had paused and swallowed, thinking horribly of Andrew Galloway, of people lurking in shadows, and of the shitty sixth sense I had acquired from that time in my life.

I placed the painting quietly next to the kitchen counter.

I wasted no time in flicking on the light of the kitchen and living room, hand already reaching for the knives kept on the counter. It never escaped my mind the certain things that I had done in the flat, like keep the knives on the edge of the counter, facing outward, in case I needed to grab them. Nor the fact I often when to sleep with a plastic bag for life in front of the door, just in case someone tried to sneak in.

My fingers were just touching the metal handle of the largest knife, when your voice rang out. ‘There will not no need for _that_ , I am sure’.

I whirled, heart in my throat, and saw you there, standing behind me to the left of the door, coat thrown over one arm and umbrella resting on the wall behind you. You considered me with a level gaze, with a flat mouth, and with eyes that saw _everything_.

You looked the same, so utterly and completely the same. No time might have passed at all. I flattened my hand on the counter, missing the knives and steadying myself. I felt so dizzy, I thought I might fall over.

You were _there_.

And, as quickly as the shock came, I pushed it down, not quite ready to let you see just how much you had surprised me; how happy I was to see you.

I swallowed and straightened up, face warm and stomach a mix of nerves and pleasure. ‘Took you long enough,’ I muttered, dropping my hand and throwing my own coat onto the back of the sofa. Your gaze flicked over me, and you straightened up almost uncomfortably.

My gaze slid back to you. You breathed in deeply, eyes narrowing and then widening. ‘I have been busy’.

My smile mirrored yours. Cold and smarmy. ‘I can tell’. I eyed you, you stared right back. I remembered the hug, the warmth, and wanted to repeat it, but my simmering annoyance and pride would not allow it. I sighed. ‘I feel as if I can’t even be _rude_ to you, because we’re standing in a flat _you_ gave me-’

You rolled your eyes, and the hand that wasn’t holding onto your coat tucked away your pocket watch. The expression only made my eyes widen in indignation. If you caught on, you did not deem to look _bothered_. ‘Anthea explained, did she not, that this this _your home,_ now-’

I huffed. I couldn’t quite bring myself to care, honestly. You pulled that face, that disgruntled one that under any other circumstance I might have found funny and prodded a finger your way. ‘ _Seven months,_ sir!’

You wrinkled your nose. ‘I can assure you, working my way into the Siberian underworld to find my brother was not a _walk in the park_. Did you expect me to find your _permission_ before leaving, Miss Carter?’

I had all but thrown my hands in the air. ‘No, you - you _moron_ , I wanted to know you weren’t dead! I wanted to know when you were back, so that I could…could stop _fretting_. You insisted so many times on keeping me safe for you own peace of mine, well do me the courtesy of offering me the same _next time,_ Mycroft!’

There was a beat of silence, in which you tilted your chin upward and considered me with a look that seemed a forced mask of coldness, over your usual natural iciness. ‘I assumed the letter was enough’.

_I shall think of you often._

I rolled my eyes and hesitated before striding over to you. I was hesitant, careful, almost as if we were starting the dance all over again. ‘It _was_ …I-’ I broke off, looking at you as if for the first time, and was so overwhelmed that I actually smiled as I remembered. ‘The phone call, too?’

You tilted you head slightly. ‘Your sharpness… _surprises_ yet again’.

‘As per, I’ll aim to ignore the insult’. My anger out and gone, I felt… _something_ swell up inside of me at the familiar back and forth of conversation. ‘You wouldn’t bother with me if I was a _total_ idiot, would you?’

Your nostrils flared as you breathed sharply. Quietly, though. I might not have noticed were it not for the silence of my flat, if it were not for my…my knack for seeing you as you saw me.

And then, in the voice I liked to think I only I heard, so very rarely, you spoke. ‘You are not at all an idiot, Ophelia’. There was a stiffness to your voice, an embarrassment that suggested you were not so fond of your own inability to be _emotional_. Not to everyone, I considered. Perhaps only a select few.

The moment between us was filled with _eyes._ Blue eyes, your eyes, soft around the edges in a way that I had seen so few times, and with a jaw so tight I wondered how you did not crack a tooth. Your gaze was unwavering, intrusive, and I hated how easily you could pick me apart with a mere look.

‘I missed you,’ I spoke into the quiet. I wanted to keep the words in, and yet I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did not let them out. ‘Did you think of me often, then, wherever you were and whatever you were doing?’ My words had some jest in them, but we both knew I was referring to your letter.

You did not back down, but the rigidity of you straight form did not break. If anything, your discomfort was even more obvious. ‘I…’ You trailed off, so out of character for you. ‘I spent seven months penetrating unlawful Siberian _people_ in a - successful, I will insert - endeavour to save my brother and to bring him back to London’. You paused. My breath felt too large for my chest, my palms sweaty, my clothes to scarce. Still, I was patient. ‘To not see you, to not know how you were… _fairing_ , was vexing for me, I cannot lie’.

My mouth twitched, but I smothered my smile and turned away, hiding the maroon of my cheeks from you. The silence stretched for only a few seconds. ‘You brother,’ I mused, toeing off my shoes and kicking them neatly next to the kitchen counter. ‘Why _now_?’ You opened your mouth, but I cut you off. I ignored the look of displeasure. ‘Do you have somewhere to be?’

You blinked. ‘At this moment, _no’_.

‘Good, then sit down. I’ve been standing all evening’. I wasted no time in plopping onto the sofa that had come with the apartment, and I hoped that you would not see the red wine stain on the furthest cushion. I curled into the corner, slipping my phone onto the armrest, and watched you hesitate, before placing your coat carefully onto the counter and sitting stiffly beside me, one sofa cushion over. ‘Go on’.

You squinted. I smiled. ‘There was word of an immense terrorist organisation planning an attack on London’. My mirth disappeared at that. ‘My brother, with his penchant for solving such cases, was finally needed to return home as it is now deemed…safe for him’.

‘ _Jesus’_.

‘Indeed’.

I wavered, before leaning into the sofa cushion and inspecting you. ‘I think his return might have broken London; you know. It was all anyone was talking about tonight’.

Your mouth twitched into a mirthless smirk. ‘Yes. Sherlock has that… _effect_ on people’.

‘You’re happy he’s home?’ You looked at me sharply, and I held up my hands in defence. ‘Right. Of course. We don’t admit such things, _do we_?’

You bestowed me with a wry glance. ‘We do not have that sort of relationship, my brother and me. I…worry for him, and he rebuffs any attempts I make at assisting’. Well, I decided, that was progress. You were talking to me, and I was listening, and fuck if I had not missed that. You turned to me, hands on your lap and fingers twitching. ‘You have been doing well, tonight especially’.

I huffed a laugh. ‘All thanks to _you_. I-’ I peered at you, eyes narrowing suddenly. ‘How do you know about tonight?’ You stared, right eye twitching only slightly, and I gaped. ‘Oh, I knew there was something weird about that guy, it was _you_!’

You did not bother to deny it. ‘The painting was for me, was it not?’

‘Yes, _but_ -’

‘That is why you turned down such an offer?’ You lifted your nose into the air. ‘ _Sentiment’_.

I scoffed. ‘I know. How _awful_ of me’. And then I looked at you, really looked at you, and I saw you for all that you were. The way you spoke of your brother, your need to look after him, for me, to snub any act of kindness even if you practiced the emotion so constantly without realising it. ‘Your brother doesn’t know I exist, does he?’

That flicker of surprise. The one that, at the beginning of…us, I could not quite read, but I was now beginning to represent with your shock at my ability to _see you._ The fact that it shocked you I could be even a little intelligent might have started to offend me a little. ‘He does not’. I hummed, face pressed against the sofa cushion, legs bent in front of me and feet facing you. If it bothered you, you did not show it. Your face contracted; lips pressed tight together. ‘You have been lonely’.

I smiled without pause, sadly and with welcome. ‘Is it that obvious? I suppose I haven’t tried to hide it’. I pushed my hair from my face, longer than it was when I had last seen you. ‘I have been, yes. I suppose I haven’t bothered to make friends, to… _meet_ anyone’. If we were being honest, then why not let the next part slip? ‘You set the bar very high, sir’.

There was no mirth in your expression; no annoyance or mocking. You looked at me, head turned to view me in full, and your gaze flickered down from my earrings, to my necklace, to the sleeves of my mesh top. When you looked back at me, you swallowed. ‘My brother informed _me_ that I am lonely’.

I cocked a brow. No shit. ‘ _Oh_?’

At my tone, you bothered to look vaguely annoyed, and I smiled in weak apology. The muscles in your jaw jumped. ‘I divulged in him that I was not, because, as it were…I think I have not been for some time’. Your gaze jumped, as if you did not want to meet my eye. ‘I he did not believe me, and I not sure I wanted him to’.

I bit the side of my mouth to stop from snorting, calmer than I had been in months. ‘I didn’t think you could get lonely’. You glowered. ‘I thought you were _beyond_ such things’.

‘I have been,’ you stated slowly. ‘Wrong before’.

I smiled, almost serene. ‘I won’t pretend to understand why I’m different from the rest,’ I admitted, quiet. ‘I won’t pretend to know why you put up with me, or care at all, but I just want you to know that I feel the same, even if you don’t care’. I reached out, only slightly, to prod your thigh with the tip of my socked toe. You looked more than disgruntled and offended. I laughed and, fuck, when was the last time _that_ had happened?

You looked uncomfortable, so I took pity on you. ‘I tried to read _The Brothers Karamazov’._

You sideways glance was cynical. ‘From your tone, I will take it that it did not go well’.

‘Not even slightly’. I stifled a yawn. ‘I did read _The Silmarillion,_ though. That I liked. I have all of your books in my bedroom, if you want them back and…and you can have the painting. For free. Though, I suppose it isn’t really free at all. You did give me five-thousand pounds, _and_ this flat, _and_ a career-’

‘Do stop talking,’ you muttered, correcting your tie.

I grinned. ‘Siberia did nothing for your manners, then?’

You left a few minutes later, as you know, stating that you had much to do upon your return to the country, and that picking up after your brother was now back on your agenda. I walked you to the door, noting that your eyes never left mine as you shrugged on your coat and picked up your umbrella.

‘You look,’ you started, standing now in the quiet hallway. You brow constricted. ‘You look very… _lovely_ tonight, Ophelia. You should be proud of you work; of yourself’.

My heart ached and my cheeks warmed, and I wondered how I had missed us getting here, to the place that we were. It was not over, I was sure, there was still so much to tiptoe through when it came to you, and I was almost entirely sure that it would not be easy. If that was it, if that was as far as I would ever go with you, then I was happy.

‘I’m glad you’re back, Mycroft,’ I murmured, standing barefoot in the door and, when you left, it was with a minute twitch of your mouth, and a swish of you coat.

I looked at the painting, next to the door, and figured I would give it to you the next time I saw you.

That night, I slept deeper than I had in seven months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boy is baaaaaack. I am loving writing his softness coming out, and his way of learning to be honest with Ophelia. I hope it is coming across not too OOC, because obviously we have never seen Mycroft with anyone. 
> 
> Sherlock is back! I am so looking forward bringing him into it. I might be the chapter after next, with the way the timeline is going. John and Mary's wedding coming up soon, and what is a lonely Mycroft to do? ;)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally! sorry about the long wait, with the sudden lack of motivation with the lockdown, I lost my groove a bit. I've started doing some yoga and exercise, and am back on writing! hope this lives up to the expectations, and thank you for the love!

I spent much of the next morning adding pictures to my website from the exhibition, seeking trends in what customers were looking for, whilst also trying very hard to not think too much on every single word you had said to me the night before.

I hated how easily you had stepped right back into my life, but I suppose it made sense. You had come into my mundane, boring life in an explosion of _white knight_ complex, that likely leaned more toward the need to control than the need to protect.

It was last night, when you explained to me as best you could of your absence, of your admittance of missing me…it was then that I realised that I _understood_ you. I have a knack for observing people, you know this, but picking you apart was something new and different. I had never met anyone like you, and to see that seven months had changed nothing within our odd little friendship, was…well, it made me feel warm and fidgety in a way that I had not felt in a _long_ time.

That day, I stepped out of my apartment in jeans with blue paint smeared onto the hip, and a light t-shirt that was, thankfully, devoid of any colourful stains. The area in which I lived was always busy with tourists and colourful people, all of them telling a different story with their accents, their skin colour, and their clothing. You chose Notting Hill well for me, though that shouldn’t surprise me.

Somehow, I could not imagine you ever living there. Had the Mycroft Holmes of his twenties been any different from the one I knew now? I doubted it, and yet…I wondered if there were less walls built up around you.

I was exactly three steps from entering the _Tesco Express,_ when my phone dinged from my back pocket. As I stepped into the shop and reached for a basket, sidestepping a shorter man who mumbled a swift and smiling sorry, I scoffed upon seeing your message.

_You mentioned my painting last night. I assume this means it is finished. – MH_

Moving out of the bustle of the shop, I stepped into a quieter aisle filled with dry foods, typed a quick text back along the lines of: _Sharp as ever, Mister Holmes – Ophelia,_ and pressed send before I could chicken out.

I grabbed the basics. Pasta, sauces, fresh fruit and vegetables, and an abundance of cleaning products that were good enough to get rid of paint stains. I spied out the man from earlier and caught his watchful eye and turned away with a tight smile.

London, whilst full of colour and light, was the epicentre for staring _creeps_.

A flicker of Andrew Galloway burst into my mind, as he did so very often, and I banished him with a few deep breaths through my nose and a sudden interest in a bundle of half price lemons.

It was when I was paying that I became more than concerned about the short, greying man who had lingered by me all throughout my shopping. I went to the self-checkout, as I usually did, and saw him at the machine one over from mine, buying only a packet of gum.

Recognition flared in me for a moment, and I worried for a moment that this might be one of Caleb’s friends, though he seemed too old to be so. Though I had become better at talking about the horribleness of what had happened without choking on my own guilt, I avoided seeing anyone I once knew to avoid tripping over my own lies.

Was this healthy? Probably not.

I turned as I left, _Bag for Life_ in hand, and noted that the man had turned too, ready to leave the shop, and he looked at me as if to say something, a smile twitching at his mouth.

I all but _ran_ out of the Tesco.

I didn’t like to think about why I so often turned down any man who offered me kind smiles, beyond that of a simple friendly hello. I didn’t like to think about why, on the rare occasion that I ventured out, I ducked away from flirtatious glances and hands at the small of my back.

I knew _why_. I just didn’t like to think about it.

I stood in the lift of my building, wondering what your day held for you. You had not replied to my message, and I assumed you were busy, though I knew well enough by then that you would not say anything unless to convey something that _needed_ saying.

I considered then that the next time I saw you, I would be sure to enquire as deftly as I could _just_ how much you controlled the entire country. The thought was both fucking terrifying, and exhilarating. It was unnerving, how little I knew of you, yet how well I felt I knew you.

Whilst you ran Britain, I painted. I tried very hard not to think about just how many politicians I despised, who you had likely shared conversation with. _Ugh_.

I entered my flat and placed the bag of shopping on the side, about to place the fruit I had bought into the second-hand, chipped bowl I had bought from a local charity shop, when I heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps outside of my front door.

The knock at my door was more than an unwelcome, and for a moment I thought that it might be you. You had a habit of bursting into whatever home I lived in oh-so conveniently, but there was something different about the knock; something rapid and impatient.

It wouldn’t make sense for you to drop by unannounced, this early in the day. You would have mentioned something, I was sure, and the only other person it might be was the older, eccentric lady who lived above me. She sometimes popped round for a cup of tea, uninvited, to talk about her late-night adventures with a number of young men, whilst pushing me to do the same.

There was a lot of nervous laughing when she came around.

What I did not expect upon opening the door, was to see your brother, the Sherlock Holmes, along with the short man from the shop.

The former burst past me with little regard for my gaping, his form as tall as yours, and black, signature coat swishing behind him. I stumbled back, a sharp remark on my tongue, and the man with the grey hair and blue eyes – John Watson, I had realised suddenly – apologised softly with a mild smile.

Not a friend of Caleb’s, then, but a face I recognised from my internet searching.

Your brother twirled around, eyes flitting across my home. ‘What,’ I ground out, holding the door by the edge as your brother twirled around, eyes lighter than yours now surveying over my form. My heart thumped at his sudden appearance. ‘The _hell_?’

‘Ophelia Carter,’ Sherlock began, as I slammed the door shut to stop any nosey neighbours. I stared at him, still a little starstruck and appalled that he was in my apartment. ‘Dark hair, dark eyes, shapely frame, _painter_. _Exactly_ like the victims of a case I was looking at over seven months ago’.

I froze. _Ah_.

I stared, tried to retighten myself, and then replied with a snap in my voice I was quite proud of, ‘Sherlock Holmes. Not dead and _very_ unwelcome in my apartment-’

John Watson rocked on his heel and butted in with, ‘Right. _Yes_. Sorry, he does this sometimes, he just wanted to-’

Sherlock paid no mind to his friend. ‘ _You_ were more than likely on the radar of one Andrew Galloway’. He eyed me for a short second, mouth quirking. His baritone voice carried in my kitchen. ‘Judging by the quickening of your breath and the dilating of your pupils, you know exactly who I am talking about. Odd, considering his name was never _released_ into the papers-’

I said the first stupid thing that came to my mind. ‘Then how do _you_ know who he is?’

He waved a hand. ‘Figured it out over tea this morning. Unimportant. What _is_ important is the fact that _you_ are _alive,_ and Mister Galloway is _not._ Nor is your friend. Caleb Sinclair, was it?’

It took me a very short while to realise that _you_ were the normal one. Or, perhaps, I had grown horribly used to your ways. I would come to realise, in time, that your nature was more subdued when around me. To others, were just as impolite and intrusive as your brother.

‘Is there something you _wanted_ , Mister Holmes?’ I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest defensively. ‘Other than throwing theories at me?’

Sherlock tilted his chin upward, gaze appraising. ‘Your lack of denying your involvement in the death of both parties is an _admittance_ -’

I gaped. ‘ _Knowing_ about something doesn’t mean participation, _idiot_ -’

He paid little mind to my insult. ‘So, you admit you knew of the death of Andrew Galloway – _ah_ , but what if you managed to _woo_ the man who found and killed so many _like_ you-’

My stomach rolled. I remember cold lips kissing my face; a weight on top of me. ‘ _What_?’

‘Sherlock,’ John Watson warned.

‘-And, in turn, killed Mister Sinclair, who found himself closer to you that you would have liked. Not romantically, of course, he was so obviously gay, but the circumstances of which he died were clearly _false_ -’

I felt sick.

My phone blared, and I knew inexplicably that it was you.

My glare breaking away from your brothers smug one, whilst John Watson stood idly between us, I answered my phone with a biting, ‘ _Hello’_.

You sighed. ‘ _Yes_ , he does have that effect on people’.

‘Are you coming?’ I asked, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

‘In exactly two and a half minutes. Can you last that long without throttling him?’ There was a clipped tone to you that I had not heard since I had first met you. You were not pleased at all, I had realised.

‘Debatable,’ I replied, before hanging up and facing your brother with a glare and hatred for my stunted height. ‘So,’ I began. ‘You were saying I killed my best friend?’

John Watson sighed.

Sherlock Holmes tilted his chin in a way so very reminiscent of you and narrowed his gaze for a split second. ‘…No’. I rose my brow pleasantly. ‘No. That isn’t _right_. You have signs of mourning still apparent. Guilt written all over you. An obvious lack of life outside of your career. But, then, how did you rise so quickly in both finance and career if not from joining the _rich_ Mister Galloway in his killing spree, killing him yourself, and then taking his money as your own?’ His eyes had widened. ‘Oh. I _see_. You _were_ his last victim, after all. There was no ulterior motive, no secret plan. You killed him in self-defence, and he killed Caleb Sinclair because…’ His eyes flashed. ‘Ah. He assumed your relationship was _romantic’_.

My anger was very quickly churning into upset, grief, and _rage_.

‘Sherlock…’ John Watson began, perhaps seeing the glassiness of my gaze, and the flush of anger rising to my cheeks.

Sherlock paid no mind. ‘That does not explain the secrecy though, does it? No…Why was Mister Galloway’s death hidden so well? Why was your name kept out of the papers? And why was Mister Sinclair’s death framed as a hate crime?’ He whirled, coat flapping, and straightened up like a rod. ‘Wait. _Wait_. This apartment. I know it. I _know_ it-’

The door clicked. ‘ _Sherlock’_.

Your brother froze, and I got to see the horror dawning on John Watson’s face as I turned to you, standing all tall and frigid in my doorway, your mouth curved into an expression of utter disappointment and displeasure. For a brief moment, you gaze flickered to mine.

Perhaps you saw the rage, because when you looked at your brother, your mouth melted into a sneer.

Sherlock turned, eyes wide and mouth snapped shut, and looked dead at you. There was silence for a moment, as John Watson muttered loudly to himself, looking from myself, to Sherlock, and then to you. Finally, your brother spoke. ‘But you…you don’t have _friends’_.

I cocked a brow, arms crossed. ‘You said the same about me,’ I cut in, and cerulean eyes met mine. I smiled tightly at your brother. ‘Perhaps you’re not quite as good as deducing others as you think’.

Sherlock’s mouth popped open then, and it was odd to see how different the two of you were. I suppose he didn’t like to think it, but your brother wore his emotions on his sleeve, even then. He was wild and messy, and you were ordered and precise.

‘Is there,’ you had spoken slowly, annoyance dripping into your tone. ‘Any _reason_ you have forced yourself into Miss Carter’s flat, other than to _show off_?’

‘I am not _showing off-’_

‘You are a bit,’ John Watson said, only to be silenced by Sherlock’s furious glare.

‘Poor job of it,’ I muttered sulkily. ‘He thought I…killed Caleb’.

You looked at me, nostrils flared and gaze studying, as if you see any signs of panic of upset. When you saw none, you looked back to your younger brother. ‘Miss Carter was under mine and Inspector Lestrade’s protection during the events of Andrew Sinclair, Sherlock. There was a _reason_ this was kept out of the media’. Sherlock pulled a face. ‘Now, Doctor Watson, I am sure Miss Carter would be more than grateful if you kept this out of your… _blog._ A lot of time and money was spent in ensuring any loose ends were… _cut’_.

That set off alarm bells. I looked to John Watson, who straightened up upon being spoken to, and nodded after a small pause. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered, to which he smiled.

‘No. _No_ ,’ Sherlock all but snapped, whirring back into action. He turned to you, face crumpling in confusion and something akin to disgust. ‘This is Uncle Rudy’s apartment and yet you _gave_ it to her. The money that came out of seemingly _nowhere_ -’ His mouth snapped shut, and he looked at you with an aghast expression. ‘My _God_ , Mycroft. Could you not have _wooed_ Lady Smallwood-’

You shifted next to me, and I spied your jaw clenching, your eyes narrowing, and your umbrella made a snapping noise as it hit the wooden floor. ‘Sherlock, you have entirely the wrong-’

Your brother all but ignored you. ‘I must say, brother, there are few things you do that surprise me still, but all but _buying_ a victim of serial killer is something I did not expect’.

John Watson’s jaw slackened. ‘Sherlock, maybe you’d better stop now, mate’.

I gaped. ‘He didn’t _buy me_ -!’

John and I were, of course, ignored.

‘Sherlock, will you please _shut up_ -’ You gritted out, and I heard the squeak of leather as your hands tightened over the hold on your umbrella.

Sherlock, I noticed, was enjoying himself far too much. I wondered if your relationship was not entirely dissimilar to other siblings. The younger one, Sherlock, had found a chink in the eldest’s armour. ‘I wonder, does the size of her _bust_ offset your unreserved disdain for any _goldfish_ like affinities-’

I whirled to Sherlock, rage tipping into fury, voice pitching higher than I would like to remember, and began to snap, _‘_ I _beg_ your-’

Your shout, your deep, rumbling, admonishment, both silenced me and sent a thrill to my core. _‘Sherlock!’_

I might have been mortified at how quickly I looked at you, neck cricking in the process, my cheeks aflame and my breath caught in my throat. You were angry; angrier than I had ever seen you. Your blue eyes were dark, your jaw clenched tight, and your form so rigid and tight that I wondered if you might tip over if I prodded you.

Sherlock seemed wholly unruffled by your shout, yet his gaze darted between the two of us quickly. Mild disgust settled over his pale face. ‘The case is solved,’ he said simply, before stalking between myself and you with little glance or apology.

I blinked rapidly.

John Watson sighed, slouched forward, introduced himself with a, ‘Sorry if I worried you in the shop. I don’t know why I do what he says sometimes’.

I nodded, only half listening to what he said as you stood behind him, gaze unwaveringly fixed on the floor. You were _pissed_. ‘That’s…fine, Doctor Watson’. A habit from my days as a cleaner, to refer to people by their last name.

He had smiled. ‘John’. Then he had looked to you, head dipped and awkwardness apparent. ‘Mycroft’.

You finally slid a slow gaze to the shorter man. ‘John’.

John had looked between the two of us, a smile tugging at his mouth, breathed in, bid farewell, and gone marching after his friend. I closed the door lightly, the silence pressing and the ridiculousness of what had just happened making me wonder just how much you had to fix the problems your little brother caused.

I turned, and you stared.

It might have been comical, how flustered I was, were it not for you dark and watchful gaze in the wake of your brother leaving. It was not uncommon for me to _appreciate_ you. My attraction to you came on early, and I had pushed it to the back of my mind as to not make a fool of myself, but to hear you shout like that, in defence of me. It awoke some very girlish part of me that University-era, lone female wolf Ophelia would have grimaced at.

You turned fully to me, still stoic, and asked in a level voice, ‘Are you…alright?’

I swallowed and nodded and tried very hard not to think about what would happen if I pushed you against a counter, if you cupped to edge of my jaw and kissed my mouth. I wondered if you would be warm, if you would be strong, if you would be the man I saw in private, and not the one the public saw. I wondered if you still smelt the same.

 _Creepy thinking_ , I decided.

‘He’s pleasant,’ I choked, and cleared my throat, and decided that yes, my hormones must be whack from an impending period. Brilliant. ‘I can see why you have _such_ a close relationship’.

You had placed your umbrella against the sofa, and I spied out the long length of your coat, and the curling of your fingers underneath the no doubt expensive leather gloves. I wondered how they would feel against my skin.

 _Nope_.

I think you saw something in my expression then, because when I looked up at you, your peered at me with a kind of intensity that had be swallowing tightly. You breathed, hummed lowly as if affirming something, and rolled your shoulder back. ‘Yes, he is quite terrible at social queues, my dear brother.

I scoffed. ‘You mean the part where he accused you of being my _sugar daddy_?’ I wanted to swallow the words the moment I said them, because there was no world in which I would not blush scarlet upon uttering the word _daddy_ in front of you in such a context. You swallowed. I stumbled on, a rambling sentence coming to mind. ‘A girl in my year at University did that for a little while. I’ll, uh, take is a compliment that he thinks I am capable of holding any kind of conversation that would ignite anyone’s interest for that long’.

You stared at me, I stared back (aghast with myself at the turn in conversation), and then your mouth quirked into one your amused little smiles, as if I was such a simple creature. ‘I would not think it quite so impossible’.

It was likely I had entered a new phase of the red colour spectrum at this point. ‘Don’t make fun of me, Mycroft’.

‘Alas, you make it so unbearably easy, Ophelia’.

I snorted at that. ‘You came all this way to save me from your brother?’

You wrinkled your nose at that. ‘I find it unsavoury to think that you need _saving_. You have proven more than enough times that my help is a hindrance-’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t be so _dramatic_ ’. I glanced at the door. ‘Will you tell him everything?’

A pause. I looked back to you. ‘I-’ You caught your words, as if surprised by a thought in your head. ‘With your permission. It would… _put off_ any trouble he might get into. Considering Doctor Watson’s recent engagement, I can only dread the trouble my little brother will get into’.

I nodded. ‘If it will stop visits like _that_ -’

‘I apologise’.

My smile faltered when I looked at you. You seemed, in your quiet way, annoyed at what had happened. I stepped forward, wondering if you would freak the fuck out if I placed a hand on your gloved one. I didn’t. ‘I’m not _angry_ , Mycroft. I assume that won’t be the last time I meet your brother, and I’ve spent a good seven months mentally preparing myself for the oddities of your life’.

Your brow slid higher. ‘My life is perfectly… _natural’_.

I hummed, brushing my hair from my face and holding up a hand, counting down with each statement. ‘Genius level intellect. Practically _runs_ the British Government. _Pretty sure_ you’re on first name basis with the Prime Minister. Brother is a world-famous _detective_ -’

‘Yes,’ you grumbled. ‘ _Alright’_. I grinned at you. You straightened up slightly, gaze flitting once over my features. So much so, that I rubbed my smile from my face. You considered me. ‘You are aware that,’ you began, voice as smooth as ever. ‘From my perspective, the least conventional aspect of my day to day existence is _you’_.

My breath caught.

I hated how often you left me reeling. It might have been funny, how lost for words I was, were I not in your presence. ‘You can’t _say_ like things that!’ I bumbled instead.

You shrugged without shrugging, because Mycroft Holmes did not _shrug_. ‘And yet, I have’. You sighed, plucked your pocket watched from underneath your coat, and considered me with a level gaze. ‘I have a meeting shortly and will likely not finish in the office until at least eight o-clock this evening’.

I blinked. ‘I feel like there’s a question in there somewhere’.

It was one of the few times, in the beginning, that I saw you struggle with your words. You swallowed tightly, clenched your jaw, and flexed your fingers. ‘If you would like, I would send a car for you and your painting for half-eight, for dinner at my home’.

Your home, somewhere I had missed. I loved having my own place, larger and sunnier and more beautiful than I could have hoped, but there was something about not saying a real goodbye to your home that had upset me at the beginning. Your cold, empty home.

My cheeks rounded as I smiled. ‘Missed me that much?’ You turned sharply toward the door, cutting me off from seeing your withering look. I could only grin. ‘I will take that as a _yes’_. You opened the door, bestowed me with once glance over your shoulder, and left once I bit the side of my cheek and nodded, affirming with a, ‘Will your brother be there?’

‘Good _bye_ , Ophelia’.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm alive! i am so sorry for the long length in not updating. writers block mixed with deadlines (that are done!!). i hope you guys enjoy!

I fiddled with my bracelet in the back of the black, sleek car that had pulled up outside of my building at exactly eight-thirty that evening. There were remnants of yellow paint beneath my fingernails, a product of an experiment painting I was conducting, with flecks of nature found throughout London. It was colourful and childish in a way that I rarely painted. 

The paint lingered along my cuticles, despite my desperate scrubbing at quarter past eight.

I was _nervous_. The fact that I had begun getting ready at _four in the afternoon_ was testament enough to that. Aside from the four exhibitions I had attended, I had hardly dressed up in a while. A _long_ while. Caleb’s funeral, I decided, did not count.

I had spent a good two hours picking an outfit and was dreading going home to by pigsty of a bedroom. Oddly enough, I had the worry of over-dressing. In front of you. The man who I was half sure must sleep in a three-piece-suit.

Yet, I wanted to look pretty, and I had little shame in admitting that to myself. I used to enjoy painting my eyelids with colour and dressing in whatever, I could snag for cheap in online sales, but lack of money and lack of life had ended that for me. And _never_ had I been invited to dinner by someone like you. Honestly, I'm not sure anyone other than housemates had cooked for me before.

Not that i for a second thought that _you_ would be the one cooking. 

I mean, yes, we’d had dinner together, but that night felt different. It took me ten minutes after you had left to realise the full extent of what you had asked me.

In the end, knowing that I was being stupid, I decided on a dress I’d had since University, but had survived the years well. It was, as I remember, a black floral and embroidered velvet mid-length slip dress, with thin straps and casual but dressy enough that I wouldn’t be second guessing it the whole night.

When my bracelet twisted and the thin chain nearly snapped, I decided that perhaps I should try and calm my frazzled nerves and instead reply to the _Instagram_ message I had received earlier, from one of the girls I had met at _Evolution Gallery_. Her page was filled with photos of her artistic signature; paintings on top of newspaper covered canvases, usually ones with political or empowering statements.

She had invited me to have drinks with others from the same events, and I had been embarrassed to know that she had likely invited me outside of whatever group chat the others had. My solidarity and quietness had led to my own isolation from the others, who had become friends.

It was funny to think that at University, I had been always with friends. There, I was liked and popular. 

I replied to her message, after biting my nude painted lip for a solid five minutes, with a: _Sounds fun!_ _Drop me a message with the plans and I’ll see what I can do._

After catching my reflection in the black car window and worrying that you would read too much into the effort I had applied to my make-up, I was more than ready to clamber as gracefully as I could out of the car once it pulled in past your gates.

With great effort, and with some unsavoury swearing, I managed to lug the canvas I had brought with me to the front door, just as you opened it. I straightened up as best I could, nearly toppling the red and blue painted work into a potted plant, and greeted with a wobbly, ‘Hi!’

You considered me, brow cocked, before muttering something and eyeing the car that was pulling out of your driver. ‘He could have helped you with this blasted thing,’ you said, standing aside and offering me a hand.

I scoffed, nerves melting away like ice, and my bracelets jangled as you helped me in sliding the painting over your threshold. With the door swinging shut behind me, you took over in pushing it against the wall, stepped back, and tilted your head to the side.

The nerves flared back with a vengeance, and I watched with a furrowed brow and bated breath as you _looked_ , in that way that only you could look, before you nodded once and began to turn, ‘It is more than satisfactory, Ophelia. Different from your other work, and I would be interested in knowing your reasons for it, I-’

You stopped only for a second when you finally looked at me, but enough for me to notice. For a moment, I worried that I had smudged my eyeliner, or left my house with paint smeared across me somewhere. You looked at me, chest rising once as you surveyed the dress I had never worn in your presence before you coughed and righted yourself swiftly. ‘You look…very lovely’.

My cheeks warmed and my smile was small as I tried hard not to think about how your gaze had dipped, for only a moment, to the thin straps of my dress, and the modest neckline where fraying lace sat against the swell of my chest.

Awkward as I might be, why not play what I had to my advantage? I was startling to realise, not for the first time, that you could sometimes be simply a _man._ And yet, simple and man in the same sentence seemed so entirely something that you were not. You were perhaps the most complex puzzle I had ever attempted to create.

I did a funny little curtsy, to which you rolled your eyes, and you led me through to the Dining Room. I was impressed at the spread, until you reminded me, ‘I did _not_ cook any of this’.

That earned a snort from me, and I lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking in the lit candles, the place settings opposite each other on the table, and the food salmon and vegetables laid upon plates that I had not seen before.

My stomach twisted with nerves. I sat down with your request, urging my inner stupid fucking demons to not go haywire with nerves now that I had seen the obvious date-like setting. I was glad, times like that, you were _you_ , though. Nerves nor awkwardness were not a thing you felt, so with a flourish of a napkin your lap as you sat in front of me, you said,

‘I thought to give you the Pinot Grigio. This is you preferred wine, yes?’

And the nerves melted away like ice against fire. I followed your lead of flattening my napkin on my lap, something I had never done before, and bestowed you with a flat smile. ‘Why ask? You probably deduced that the moment you met me’.

Your brow curved. ‘The fourth time,’ you corrected.

‘Ah’. I looked at the wine glass, condensation falling down the sides, and smiled. ‘You don’t have to do that with me, you know’. I fiddled with my dress under the table, heart tight in my chest. Your expression did not change. ‘I know your habits of…deduction can be considered rude or…strange, but I don’t mind. I won’t ask how you know what my favourite wine is if I find myself drinking it’. I paused, and your dipped your chin. ‘The first time we had a real conversation outside of work, it was because you kidnapped me. Pretence of this being a normal friendship are out of the window, I’m afraid’.

You sighed, eyes rolling. ‘Why does everyone insist upon calling it that? You sound like _John Watson’._

I sighed. You pointedly ignored this. We ate, after that, and the nerves did not exist anymore. You were you and I was me, and somehow that worked when it came to conversation. I wondered, as I’m sure every person did when talking to you, whether you grew tired of any omission of intelligence in my working, or if I asked any question your found _boring_.

Perhaps it was the wine, I wondered, as I thought of something I wanted to ask you. I has been sipping slowly, because my alcohol tolerance hadn’t seemed to have gotten any better since I was fourteen and stealing my dad’s expensive whiskey.

Perhaps it was you, and the intoxicating musky presence you had on me. You leaned back in your chair, whiskey tumbler in hand, and considered me as we flicked questions and answers back and forth.

Questions from me were often akin to, ‘Are both of your parents alive?’, ‘How long have you lived here?’, ‘Did you go Eton, like _everyone_ in Government?’, ‘What was your Dissertation on?’, and ‘Are you really going to hang up that painting? It doesn’t really fit in with the rest of your work’.

Your questions were simple, and yet something I had never thought to think of. ‘You can’t possibly _enjoy_ watching those God-awful reality television shows?’, ‘And what do you suppose you might have done had you not decided to pursue your talent?’ and ‘Why on Earth would you say that? My brother and I are _nothing_ alike’.

Like I said, I think it was the wine that had me asking a question that had sat at the back of my mind for weeks and weeks. ‘Why did you call me that night?’

Even if you had not been one of the most intelligent people on planet Earth, you would have known exactly what I had been talking about. The night you had silent called me, from wherever on Earth you had been. You looked at me, a thoughtful expression on your face as you circled the rim of your whiskey glass, and you replied, ‘There was rumour of someone within the group I was infiltrating who might have been a mole. I assumed this rumour referred to me’.

Your answer seemed complete, and you must have seen the confusion on my face, because your gaze flicked away, your shoulders straightened, and you carried on, almost stonily, ‘I thought I might die’.

Now what the hell does someone reply to that? _I thought I might die, so I wanted to hear you._

You looked back to me, and I thought you looked _vulnerable_. Now, that isn’t to say you _did_ look it, but there was something in your form that shifted. An admittance of something that had not yet been uttered. I smiled, sipped my wine, and said, ‘You know, I’m getting invited to a lot of fancy events. Do you want to teach me how to dance?’

-

‘You’ve probably had _dancing lessons_ , haven’t you?’

You raised your hands, fingers bent and taking a stance that I guessed meant for me to reach and clasp them. The thought made me want to bolt; to pause and take a breath and remind myself not to do anything _stupid_.

Your gaze flickered to mine as I took your hands, palms flat against yours, and you replied, ‘And what if I have? Mummy _insisted_ on it’.

I thought, for a moment, of my odd trashing to Spice Girls songs along with a few school friends years before and grimaced, my hand warm against your cooler one. ‘We had _vastly_ different childhoods’.

‘That,’ you replied, fingers tightening against mine. You were a breath away, your form seeming so much taller and wider in only your long-sleeved shirt and waistcoat. ‘Does not surprise me’.

The music rose in tempo, the piano crackling over the speaker, and you took one just a half-step closer. I swallowed my smile, glanced down at my feet, and sent a silent prayer for me to not trip, and peered back up at you. ‘ _Mummy_?’

You sighed sharply through your nose, gaze flickering to look down at me disdainfully. ‘I assumed you would pick up on that’.

I scoffed. ‘You rarely show anything to make fun of. I would be a fool to miss an opportunity, Mycroft’.

You did not reply, but I was caught in your gaze; your quirked brow; your slight upturn at the right side of your mouth. You paid no mind in replying, but instead moved, quick like a cat, and I was forced to follow. I bumbled, and I was not wrong in assuming you enjoyed your quick payback to my comment.

‘Bring your feet together,’ you corrected me, as I glared down at shoes, and your shiny ones. ‘Step forward with your left foot – _ow_ \- and then step to the right side with your right foot’. I did as I was told, clumsily and awkwardly and so caught up in the slow, simple dance that I hardly noticed my death-grip on your fingers, nor the fact that my entire body seemed to me leaning toward yours. ‘Bring your feet together, now step backwards with your right foot – _no_ , step to left side with left foot-’

I huffed a laugh, hair falling around my face as I watched my feet trip and go in the wrong direction, and replied to your instructions, ‘It _can’t_ surprise you that I’m bad at this’.

You chuckled, a small huff of a sound over the tinkling, static piano. I looked up in that moment, hands gripped in your and halfway through a clumsy, quick step, and you were looking at me. Your mouth was only slightly curved, and your eyes a little wider, and you were there.

You were Mycroft Holmes and I was me, and we were _dancing_.

It was stupidity on my part, what I did next. I had spent so long never getting my hopes up, always so content with having your friendship at all. I did not want to scare you; to spread my feeling in front of your too quickly.

But I will not forget, and nor shall you, that when I bent up on my toes and felt your fingers press a little harder into my waist, you kissed me, too.

It was short, and warm, and just how I imagined it. Simple, with the rippling heat on my cheeks and the swirling in my stomach and the knowledge that, yeah, a peck on the fucking lips was better than half of the sexual encounters I had ever had. You pressed just a little harder, your mouth slanting, your fingers pressing.

And then it was over.

I knew without quite seeing your face as you pulled away from me, that it was too fast; too much.

I dipped my head in defeat, in sadness of what might come next, and the piano crackled silent, and you stood before me, straight as a rid with hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. ‘Mycroft, I’m sorry, I-’

I looked at you, and you were gone. Instead, there was the you that others saw, the you that presented a wall that no one could climb. The you that I did not blame for existing now that I knew more of your life. You looked at the floor, jaw muscle jumping, and spoke your words with a flat tone.

‘Allowing myself to open up to weakness is selfish and of poor judgement on my part. Sherlock is enough of one, and to welcome another would be foolish of me’. I had heard you refer to me as a personal weakness more than once, but the suppressed way in which you delivered that sentence made me think that a decision had been made in your mind.

I liked to think that I was very rarely stumped in your presence anymore at that time, but alas, you had me _stumped_.

‘Don’t do that,’ I accused, without quite thinking on it.

You looked at me sharply, expression grim. Your eyes, ever expressive to perhaps only me, were shining with an emotion I could not place. ‘Whatever do you mean, Ophelia?’

I scoffed, shoes clacking as I took two steps toward you in that gaping front hall. ‘I’m not the _others_ , Mycroft Holmes. I don’t _work_ for you, and I am not your brother, who seems _completely_ devoid of appreciating all that you do for him. I am _me,_ and I have never cared for your bullshit’. You straightened up, your throat jumping as you swallowed. ‘Don’t backtrack because you _dared_ to open up to me. I’ll apologise for kissing you, but I won’t say sorry for anything else’.

You did not deny it straight away, but instead continued to eye me with that severe stare. You voice was softer when you spoke, but you form did not match your tone. ‘I am not a man you want to become any more associated with, more so than you already are’.

My brow crumpled; my chest rose and fell. ‘Yes, you _are_ , idiot’.

The words were trapped in my throat, words that I wanted to spell out to you. And yet, my admission sat beside us, a clash of blue and red, of fire and ice. How else could I say it? How else could I tell you that you were, and still are, the most _infuriating idiot_ I had ever met, but could not bear to not have in my life? I wanted to, I did, but beneath the anger I was mortified. 

You had explained to me so, so many times that you found fault in you want to be friends with me but had ignored your own habits.

‘My codename is Antarctica,’ you told me, rising your chin, and donning the tone of _Mister British Government._ ‘Because I am _unfeeling_. I consider death to be a part of life, and extraordinarily little of that affects me. I feel little remorse for things I do not care about, and I am, to societies standards, a selfish, cruel, and unpleasant man. I care not for this, nor what others think of me’.

My shrug was minute. ‘Are you going to pretend that you have been that way with me; that this is how I should think of you?’

You did not speak for a moment, before replying, softly, ‘No,’ you said. ‘I will not’.

I swallowed, mortification and upset and the forefront of my tone. ‘Will you pretend that you did not kiss me back?’

Your mouth flattened. ‘No. I will not’.

My heart twisted in my chest, and I pushed the last question out of my mouth. ‘Why am I _Aroura_?’

There was a twinge in your expression, a slight downturn of your mouth, a flickering of your eyes, and a clenching of your fingers. ‘Because you are _vibrant’_.

My heart hammered out of nerves and panic. I stood rooted on the spot, watched the unmoving way in which you considered me. Finally, with a nod and a swallow, I said, quietly, ‘It’s not fair to push me away’. I frowned. ‘And I am not going to wound my pride anymore’.

You said nothing, and my chest went a little cold.

You were going to let me leave.

‘I’ll get a Taxi home. Thank you for tonight, Mycroft’.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, guys. 
> 
> To the current world situation, I will say this: If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.

Possibly one of the worst parts, post- spat, was the fact that I lived in the flat you had gifted me. Despite my name being on the lease, and my money paying the bills, I still felt awkward being there. Like your imprint was on the place, and I had no right to be angry at you despite our little…dispute.

It’s likely why I decided to go out for drinks with the others from the Gallery.

It was the day after seeing you, and I shrugged the annoyed, angry tears that I had been taking out on a rather bruised and battered canvas away and met them at a little bar in Chinatown. There was seven of us all together, three girls and four boys, and I remember thinking how desperately I wanted to fit in; to be normal.

The thing is, I had forgotten what normal felt like, and it was only two hours in and four drinks down, as I laughed with these people, that I realised that, yes, my skin felt soft and my mind at ease with you, but people were not a weakness.

And I think, somehow, I had started to disallow myself the idea of having a friendship out of you. You were safe. You could look after yourself. _Other friends?_ They could be a weakness; a loss that I could experience again, like with Caleb.

I had to convince myself that nothing like that would happen to me again, and yet I had been isolating myself for that sole reason.

The day after the drinks, I spent posting canvases to buyers and looking at how much an agent would cost, and I realised that what I had been feeling, that desire to isolate myself from fear of loss and of losing someone else, might have been how you felt.

Funny thing is that just pissed me off more.

That night, I drank a bottle of Pinot and watched old episodes of _LOST_. I wondered how you, such an intelligent man, could not come to the same conclusion that I had: that allowing yourself to feel something for someone else was not a bad thing. That completely shutting someone out was selfish, and rude, and a kind of a dick move-

And I thought of your mouth, your fingers against my back, your warmth and strength and, God, why did you, a well-raised Government man with more power than the fucking Queen, have to be the person I looked at and though _ah, yes, I choose that one._

It was almost enjoyable, the anti-guy few days I endured; to sip wine from the bottle and listen to God awful music, and to change the colouring of my art blog to hues of pink. The drinks with the others from the Art Gallery were what triggered those few days of angry painting and singing badly to Lorde, of forcing myself to be the person who could push herself _out there._

So, I did something I never normally would have done.

 _I_ initiated an evening of drinks with them again.

I straightened my hair, made myself feel pretty, wore a top that my friends at Uni would have wept with joy at, and thought of Caleb, of my mum, and of Andrew fucking Galloway.

I decided that I would not be broken and lonely. That I would show you affection was not a weakness; that I could survive on my own.

That night, I decided that the girl who had messaged me initially and who I had found myself liking more than the others the first time, Sarah, was the kind of girl Caleb would have liked. She was funny, opinionated, with an air of someone who had been noticeably quiet in school. She rapped terribly, insisted we pee in the same cubicle, and danced so well that I became rather embarrassed at my own attempt at dancing.

You likely do not care about these details, but you know full well by now the kind of person I am. I am not prim and proper like you. I enjoy the silly and the fun of society; the soft and the lovely and the people who make life a little lighter.

We ended up in _G.A.Y,_ down Old Compton Street, and I remember thinking how I had not been so trashed in so long, that I had not laughed so hard in what felt like years and that, as I slipped into the cab that night, waving goodbye to Sarah and a few of the boys, that the man seated inside the taxi and looking at me expectantly looked remarkably like your brother.

I had blinked rapidly, warm package of chips on my lap, and balked a little drunkenly at him.

‘You smell like a brewery,’ he had drawled, wrinkling his nose a little, and I had known then that this was _definitely_ your brother. He had then quickly spoke my address to the driver through the separator and turned to me with a quirked brow as we sped through the lit-up streets of Central London.

‘Can I _help_ you?’ I snarked, suddenly coming back to myself. There was no way I was going to sober up, I was far too drunk, but I may as well use the added confidence to verbally batter your brother the way he had me.

‘I should hope so,’ he replied, folding his gloved hands onto his lap. ‘My brother, it would seem, has become even more unbearable than I remember’.

I huffed and slouched into my seat, my side-eye catching his. Somehow, I felt as if I could handle the situation. If I could banter with you, why not him? ‘I cannot _iterate_ how much I do not care, Mister Holmes’.

He waved a hand impatiently, blue eyes flashing. ‘ _Yes, yes._ Mycroft is an unbearable _queen_ at times, but you are going to have to at least try to pull his attention to you once again. I do not think I can take another unannounced visit to my flat-’

‘Look,’ I said, flushing, fingers gripping the chip package. ‘I went a step too far with your bloody brother and scared him off’. I flushed even deeper and said in a rush, ‘And I think we both know how much he hates people getting involved in his life’.

Sherlock’s expression did not change. ‘Yes,’ he agreed finally. ‘My brother dearest does have a difficult time processing all things _human’_. He was so like you, in that moment, with the way he described exactly what both of you were with utter disdain.

I snorted. ‘No shit’. I rubbed my forehead and swallowed against the dryness of my mouth. All I wanted was my bloody chips. ‘I’m not going to contact him, or apologise, or even tell him you’ve spoken to me. He’s a grown up, Sherlock, and I know that he babysits you, but I’m not going to do the same to him’.

And then there it was, that comical Holmes affronted look, mixed with the right dose of delusional behaviour. ‘ _Babysit_ me? What I _ridiculous_ thing to say-’

‘Either way,’ I cut across him, noting that we were getting close to my place. ‘I’m sure he already knows that we’re speaking. If you’re tired of your big brother looking out for you, remember that you wouldn’t be here without him’.

‘The same can be said for you,’ Sherlock replied, but I’m not entirely sure if he meant it as a comeback, or a simple fact.

I scoffed. ‘I know. Being assigned his cleaner was the luckiest thing that happened to me. I’d be dead right now, if not’.

Sherlock looked at me sharply. ‘His _cleaner_?’

I jumped at his sudden response, the booze slowing my awareness. ‘Well, _yeah_. Before all of this, before…before Andrew Galloway, I was a cleaner’. I wrinkled my nose. ‘Surely you know that. I thought between the two of you knew _everything_ about _everyone_ -’

Sherlock steepled his fingers. ‘Finding information on your has become quite difficult’.

‘…What?’

He slid me a sharp, bemused look. ‘You are within the protection of Mycroft Holmes, Miss Carter, information on you will not be so easy to come by’.

I swallowed. Another thing that you had done without me knowing. Were you so paranoid? ‘Christ,’ I settled with, finally. ‘He is so _fucking_ dramatic’.

Sherlock chuckled a little at that, a dry and humourless sound. ‘I suppose I cannot ask you to draw attention away from me for a few days, when I know exactly what it is like to have the _Iceman_ , a silly name, have his eagle-eyes on you’.

I smiled a little. ‘It’s because he cares about us – _you_ -’

‘Good God,’ Sherlock responded. ‘ _Please_ , stop talking’. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me closely. ‘You are not at all what I expected’.

I hummed. ‘A cleaner and a painter. I know-’

‘That is not what I meant’.

‘Less goldfish than you thought?’ I asked, and your brother had smiled a little at that. I wasn’t surprised at all, really, that he was in that taxi with me. For two brothers who insisted on not caring, you were so intertwined with each other’s lives where you really did not need to be.

The taxi stopped a few seconds later, and I bestowed Sherlock with a smile and a waggle of my fingers. ‘You can pay for that. Thanks’.

The door slammed behind me, and I wondered if you had your _people_ watching.

-

I woke up to someone knocking on the door in the late afternoon a day later, hair still damp from the bath I had taken and mood a little higher. I had sold a painting I had poured over for months, for an amount that was well above what I had thought it would.

I opened the door, and there you were.

I eyed you, still a little groggy from my nap, my hair wet and my skin pink. You stood there in a manner I had never seen you before; _awkward_. You wore a dark grey suit, your umbrella twisted into your clenched fist, and your mouth twitched into that annoyed manner I knew well.

‘My brother has spoken to you’.

I remember thinking that I had never regretted not putting a bra on so much in my entire life. I was wearing a bloody white shirt with little UFO’s on it, and obscenely short pyjama shorts. I took a moment to answer, as I tried to think extremely hard of a way that I could disappear on the spot, but then remembered that _I_ should be annoyed at _you_.

I sniffed. ‘Yesterday,’ I drawled; voice tight. ‘Was there anything else that you wanted, Mycroft, other than to relay my evening to me?’

Your gaze was dark, your mouth a straight line. You simmered with a kind of annoyance that made me think of a posh little boy who could not get his own way. ‘I…have urgent news’.

I narrowed my gaze at you. I don’t think I had ever seen you…twitchy before. To be fair, I had not expected for a moment that your way of contacting me would be to knock on my door. I expected you to send a car, or _text_. I refrained from rolling my eyes. ‘You’re lying’.

You recoiled at the mere suggestion. ‘I am _not’_.

‘I know when you’re lying, Mycroft. You’re not as impenetrable as you think-’ I cut myself off and rubbed my cheek tiredly. ‘Just _come in_ , will you?’ With that, I wasted no time in tugging you forward by the sleeve of your suit jacket.

You glared and glowered, back straight and eyes like hawks as you surveyed my flat. There was the half-finished container of chips from the night before, and underwear hanging from the clothes horse near the wide-open window in the living room. I blushed and stood my ground. I wasn’t going to hold your hand through talking to me.

Your gaze was a dark blue, so different, and yet so like your brothers. It made my exposed skin prickle. Your voice was low when you spoke, ‘What did Sherlock say to you?’

And then, yes, I might have snapped with annoyance a little. ‘ _That’s_ what you want to ask me, _sir_?’

You stiffened. ‘There is no need for _pleasantries_ , Ophelia’.

‘No,’ I agreed quickly. ‘You have made that _abundantly_ clear’. We stared at each other, for just a moment, until I spoke what I had been holding inside since I had left your house over a week ago. ‘You just… _left_ and went all _Holmes-like_ , all over again’. Perhaps it was the accusation in my voice, but you bristled. Before you say anything, I cut across you. ‘If you call me a _fucking_ _weakness_ one more _God damn_ time, I will – I’ll throw paint on your expensive _fucking_ suit, Mycroft-’

Silence reigned for a while, a time in which I glared at you, the heat of my anger like fire against your cold, stoic indifference. And yet, your act had been slipping in that moment. You were hard, like marble, with a twisted displeasure in your expression, and a death-like grip on your umbrella. ‘There are many things I know to be true of me’. You spoke in a quiet, level voice. A frightful whisper. ‘Alas, I cannot begin to understand why so many think me so cruel for doing something as simple as _protecting them’_.

I crackled with annoyance. ‘There is a difference between protection and _control_ -’

‘And you, Ophelia, refute the fact that you _relish_ being under control?’ I plummeted into a sudden boiling hot vat, my heart jumping and my cheeks flushing. Your pupils widened against the blue, your voice lower and sharper in a way that reminded me of how you had shouted at your brother. ‘That you have not enjoyed so immensely the watch I have over you, nor the decisions I have made on your behalf-?’

My words were stuck in my throat, the embarrassment of your words sinking in. It did not help, either, that my bare skin felt boiling against the cool of my apartment. ‘That is _not_ the same! You are trying to control something that should not be controlled. God, _I can’t believe I am going to say this_ , but you can’t control _feelings_ Mycroft-’

You blanched. I huffed, not entirely against your repulsion at the word. You took one, level step forward. ‘And that is what you have, then? _Feelings’_. I glared. Why was it that I seemed to be the only one embarrassed by the sudden frankness of the conversation, mixed in with the raised voices? Why was it that you always emerged victorious? ‘Answer me, Ophelia’.

I flushed, I am sure, and even deeper colour of red at your words. I remembered, quite suddenly, your low voice, so long ago, calling me a _good girl._ I sighed in annoyance and frustration. ‘Have I not already told you as much? Was it not so blindingly obvious from me asking you to dance, as well as kissing you?’ I swallowed. ‘Would you like me to ask your father for permission, next time-’

You sighed. ‘Why must you turn everything into a silly joke?’

‘Why must you turn everything into a _bloody_ palaver!’

We stared at each other. The air was a thick, I remember, with the sudden truth of the matter. There was no avoidance or hiding it; my feelings were open and there for you to throw aside. And, perhaps, an answer, outside of weakness and protection, would perhaps make me feel all the better.

You sighed, shifted, and met my gaze once again. ‘It is the wedding of John Watson today’. You nodded once at my confused look. ‘I received a call from Sherlock, in which he berated me a fair amount and I pointed out the ridiculousness of weddings’.

‘Of course,’ I agreed, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Your expression flattened. I cocked a brow, my arms crossed over my chest. ‘John was not aware that Sherlock had faked his own suicide, I am sure you will know by now. He was, to put it rather lightly, extremely upset with my brother upon his…resurrection’.

‘…It must have been a shock’.

‘Yes,’ you agreed, tone clipped. ‘And yet, he forgave him. Because, I wager a guess, he saw that what Sherlock had done was a form of protection he had extended to Doctor Watson’.

I huffed a breath through my nose and proceeded to give you a very dry look.

‘You are unnaturally defensive today,’ you said, blue eyes flickering. ‘Perhaps your new lifestyle of late nights and _partying_ have taken their toll-’

My mouth popped open. I balked. ‘ _Lifestyle_? It’s considered _normal_ , to socialise at the weekends, Mycroft, and it is _good_ for me-’ You had huffed a disdainful chuckle. ‘Oh, you are being an arse today! Perhaps I am defensive because you are being _rude_!’ I flushed, and you peered at me with that guarded expression.

‘Perhaps it is your menstrual cycle,’ you began nastily. ‘You would be a few days early, I _suppose_ -’

I gaped; face flushed with rage. I did not know whether to laugh or scream. ‘How do you _even_ -?’ I quickly swallowed my tirade. ‘ _Out’_.

You had the decency to look affronted. ‘I _beg_ your pardon?’

‘Get out,’ I stated, already heading for the door, and yanking it open. ‘And come back when you’ve learnt how to address me like I am a human being, and not-not a _goldfish’_.

Your expression flattened at that. Not one to remain and bask in any form of uncomfortableness, you wasted no time in heading for the door, your eyes cast upward and your walk stiff. ‘Good day, Ophelia’.

My reply was a stiff smile and a slamming door.

-

I was not as surprised to see Anthea as I should have been.

Upon hopping up the steps to the posh Gallery, my boots clacking against the cement, I had spied out a familiar black car. You, I knew, would not break a weeks silence to have a confrontation with be in public. So, when I walked into a large room to the right of the entryway, named the Greek Room, I only blinked once upon seeing the well dressed, sophisticated, and beautiful woman, before approaching her.

She had turned upon seeing me, Blackberry shockingly absent, and stuck out her hand for me to shake. I had only met the woman a few times, but I could understand why you hired her. She did not offer me a fake smile, but instead donned an expression that meant business. ‘Miss Carter,’ she greeted.

‘Anthea,’ I replied, shaking her hand, and wondering when I had become so used to such odd surprises. Her appearance had barely ruffled me. ‘I take it this isn’t a coincidence?’

Her smile was tight. Her brown eyes, though, remained serious. ‘Not entirely,’ she replied, turning to face the grand painting in front of us, depicting the birth of Aphrodite. ‘I need a second opinion of a painting I want to buy. I thought that if I were to email you through your website with a false name, you would be more likely to come’.

I eyed her. ‘And why is that?’

Her smile, this time, reminded me of yours. She watched me from the corner of her eye. ‘I am not entirely blind to how difficult Mister Holmes is, Miss Carter. With that in mind, I am about to do something I have never done before’.

I blinked. ‘…And that is?’

‘Beg’.

_‘…What?’_

She turned fully to me again, and I caught glimpse of an engagement ring that had not been the last time I had seen her. ‘Mister Holmes is being…more challenging than usual, at the moment. He is a fair boss, Miss Carter, despite what others may think. But _whatever_ pains you have inflicted upon him, I _beg_ that you forgive him’.

I actually laughed, imaging what the hell you were putting your poor employees through. ‘Are you _serious_?’

Anthea did not laugh. ‘I very rarely speak ill of Mister Holmes, and I am quite sure that even if he knew I was saying these things, he would have it in himself to understand where I am coming from’. She breathed and stared me dead in the soul. It was quite frightening. ‘You _need_ to forgive him’.

I chewed on my lip, torn between laughing and being genuinely concerned. ‘I wanted him to suffer for a little bit,’ I admitted.

Anthea was not ruffled in the slightest by my remark. ‘As all men deserve, at one point,’ she replied smoothly. ‘Yet, you will be doing myself and many others a favour, I assure you. I will not disclose anything that will breech the privacy of Mister Holmes, but there have been very few times where I would describe him as…sullen, yet this is one of them’.

Did that remark make me a little happy? Yes. Am I ashamed of that? No.

‘I was _always_ going to forgive him,’ I muttered.

That, apparently, was that, because Anthea nodded, pulled out her phone, typed something, and then slid it into the pocket of her black coat. ‘Very good. A car will be waiting for you after we have finished here, to take you to him. I do implore that you not get too angry at him. As I have said, he is being far more difficult than usual’. She turned swiftly on her heel. ‘Now, the painting myself and my fiancé like is this one, but there is another, of Venus, that we cannot decide on-’

It took me a few seconds to fully comprehend what the fuck had just happened, before righting myself and stumbling after the woman, whose heels clacked in her wait.

As it turned out, I may be seeing you far earlier than expected.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally. finally. f i n a l l y.

I stopped at the familiar double doors that sat down the corridor of the Diogenes Club, tucked into a corner and away from any watchful eyes. I had managed to tiptoe past the few ageing men who sat in the Sitting Room, cautious of what you had told me about the presence of women in the place.

I held the translucent card that Anthea had given me. It looked like a light bit of plastic, and I could not understand for the life of me how anything could read it. Then again, it would explain why I had not seen what you had swiped to open the doors, what seemed like ages ago.

I felt a thrill at the idea of arriving unannounced. I was so used to _you_ doing so to me.

I eyed the double doors where we had stood together, so long ago, and looked to where you had swiped your own card, I assumed. There, hidden in the dark wood, was a very thin and long hole. With the confidence of someone who was very out of their depth, I huffed, shrugged, and swiped.

I jumped a little when the doors spread, revealing the lift. Hearing the tell-tale sounds of decrepit, shuffling footsteps, I stepped quickly into the sleek and cool lift, and sighed in relief when the doors slid shut.

The impending situation suddenly became very, very real.

I thought very quickly about what I would say or do. I had wanted you to come to me to apologise, but I suppose that is what you had been doing initially, before you had brought up my bloody _period_ and been so very, _very_ sexist.

 _Why_ was I so enamoured with you again?

In the week since seeing you, in which I had stewed in my anger, I had constantly considered the fact that you were, and not many people knew, a very emotional and difficult man. Likely, you had no idea to approach the situation. Lucky for you, I was bumbling and awkward. What a pair we made.

The doors opened with a quiet swoosh, and I considered that you likely knew someone had arrived, unannounced. How annoyed were you, I wondered, as I stepped out of the lift and clutched my bag. I could imagine you, head rising, brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed as you waited for your visitor to reveal themselves.

I rounded the corner into the familiar office, fingers circled around the strap of my bag, and stopped with a tight swallow upon meeting your surprised gaze.

Surprised for _you_ , I mean. A slight twitched of your brow, a straightening of your already rod-straight form, and a flare of your nostrils.

There was a long pause, in which you lay your pen calmly on the table, continued to watch me, and leaned back in your chair. You were not one to be thrown off for long, I knew, and your expectant expression held an ounce of wry amusement as you watched me.

I swallowed, thought of what to say, decided that I had no idea, and then sighed, unbuttoned my coat, and, whilst pulling it off, said quite pleasantly, ‘So, I hear you’ve been as _delightful_ as usual’. I was quite pleased with that one.

You watched me, eyes following with a look of disdain as I threw my pea-green coat onto the sofa to my right. When you gaze travelled back to mine, you blinked slowly. ‘Anthea’. You did not seem surprised by the knowledge your trusted assistant had found me, but I suppose there was a reason you trusted her, so.

I smiled; an admission. ‘We had _quite_ the chat,’ I relayed, shifting from foot to foot. I was wearing my new, white trainers that I thought would give off an air of casual professionalism to the client I had thought I would be meeting, who turned out to be Anthea. I watched as your fingers flexed against the desk. Softening a little, my tone mildly exasperated, I said, ‘ _Mycroft’._

There was a long pause, in which I gripped my bag tighter, brow furrowed and gaze beseeching, until your shoulders sagged in apparent defeat. The corners of your mouth dipped inward as you frowned, and I could only imagine how difficult it was for you to actually admit _any_ kind of wrongdoing. ‘I wrongly stated some… _unseemly_ things’.

I nodded sagely with an expression of mock interest. ‘Do you really think?’

You glowered suddenly, and I swallowed a smile. ‘You appear _pleased_ with this entire situation. May I ask _why_?’

I shrugged and took one step forward. ‘I will admit that my ego has inflated somewhat, knowing that the great Mycroft Holmes was moping around because of _me_ , for a whole _week’_.

You could not have looked more uncomfortable if you tried, I think. ‘That,’ you muttered. ‘Is a gross exaggeration’. I cocked a brow, and you paused, truly looking at me with a flickering gaze and a bob of your Adams Apple. ‘I was under the impression you no longer wished to associate with me’.

I rolled my eyes. So _that_ was it, then. ‘ _Mycroft_. We had a fight. That _happens_. You say sorry, I stew, and then I forgive you in my own time. I’m sure it will also work vice versa-’

‘Usually, people learn and do not return’. You stated this as if it were a fact; a piece of information you knew only to be true, likely from experience.

My playful manner disappeared, and I stepped further forward, my mouth pulling into a frown. ‘I’ve already told you that won’t happen with me,’ I replied softly. There was only so much I could say, without drawing up the things you obviously wished to not make known; your belief that you were so undeserving of affection, for one.

You stared at me, and I swallowed any ounce of humour. The air, suddenly, seemed different. ‘…I had, I will admit, planned to approach you’. You stood, then, and dipped your chin in my direction, the desk between us. Your fingers steepled for a moment against the metal. ‘Perhaps a last attempt to right my wrongs’. You rounded the desk, hands coming now to straighten the buttons of your suit. ‘It is quite fitting that you have come here today, for that reason’.

I swallowed. You were, as I allowed it, back control of the situation.

You nodded, as if to yourself, as if a decision in your mind had been made. ‘This is…difficult,’ you muttered, not standing on the opposing side of the desk, only a few steps away from me. ‘I…have found myself coming upon a decision, one of which that I am… _forced_ to believe has stemmed from that…that I have had _quite enough_ of childish avoidance – of my _own_ avoidance to what is likely inevitable, due to the fact that I cannot, as much as I try, keep myself from you’.

You waited for a reply, and I gave you none. It was your turn to admit to… _feelings_. Kissing you had wounded my pride enough.

Your jaw jumped, and you rolled your shoulders straight. ‘I planned to act upon that decision, and to right my wrongs’. There was a slant to your mouth, and I might have called it a smile. ‘Let it be said that your usual fire only aided me in coming to this conclusion’.

My cockiness was gone, and I am sure you saw the flood of nerves on my face, perhaps even heard my heart stutter in my chest. I swallowed and jerked a nod, my fingers practically white with the grip I had on the strap of my bag. ‘You have the perfect opportunity, then,’ I replied, voice hitched with nerves.

‘I am not one for dramatics,’ you said. With the tone of your voice, you can have been discussing the weather.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ I replied, without missing a beat.

Your mouth flattened and you gave me a withering look. I could only give a small smile in return.

 _‘_ And _yet,_ I find that I must refer to a book of which I observed was a favourite of yours, from your time spent residing in my residence. A sentence, perhaps, I could not prevent myself from noticing you seemed so charmed with’. You gaze was unwavering; your tall form wrapping around me even from a few feet away. ‘I do not consider the heart to be a whimsical device of emotion, and yet, to refer to a favoured Austen novel of yours, if your heart _whispers_ that I have done _anything_ for you, I cannot contrive it to be wrong’. You tilted your chin higher, as if a sharp certitude had come over you.

I am sure the only thought going through my head at that moment was the mortifying realisation that you had become aware of my fascination with that particular page from _Pride and Prejudice._

You shifted, watched me carefully, and tucked your hands neatly at your sides. And yet, they flexed, nervous and quick. _Idiot man_ , I thought, waiting, knowing that it was your turn to do it. I had, of course, kissed you first last time.

I smiled in reply, tilted my head higher, dropped my hands from their death grip on my bag, and perhaps you knew that I was saying _go on then, sir._

You took three long steps after a moment of staring at me, of studying me for any sign of a _no_.

You moved with a kind of force I had not seen upon you before and gone was the calm and collected. Instead there was a man, a man of confidence and arrogance, and your hands cupped my cheeks, and your eyes fluttered closed, and you all but dragged me against you.

Your mouth was soft, your fingers a breath against my waist. Your words rung in my ears, over and over, and I wondered what odd world I had fallen into where you had feelings for someone like _me_ , and I had feelings for someone like _you_.

The bare skin of my arms felt the juxtaposition of your neat, pressed suit, and you were rigid even in holding me, but it was a familiar, welcoming kind that was so entirely you. The kiss was sure and so different from the one we had shared in your entryway, perhaps because you, Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, had given into to _sentiment_.

The fingers lingering over my waist were replaced by a hand, large and long, and you were pulling me closer, your mouth a little harder, your smell invading my senses, and when you pulled away just slightly, mouth lingering over my jawline, your breath was warm when you muttered, ‘The fact of the matter is, I fear I would do countless things for you, Ophelia’.

I all but grabbed you and yanked your lips back to mine.

There was a thud, and I suppose it had been my bag dropping from my shoulder. The noise appeared to spur you on, because your hand was then against my jaw, tilting my head higher against your staggering height, and I thought I might pass out.

I had gone so long without a _kiss_ , without a _hug_ , and to have you there… _you_.

And yet, the way your mouth opened mine, your kiss soft and slow and so fucking all consuming, was enough to banish those thoughts from my mind. My hand lowered without thought, tracing the lines of you until I could fiddle with the button of your jacket.

I had never been so close to you for such a length of time, to feel the lines of your lanky, strong body so close to mine, and I thought I might honestly combust were I not to get rid of that _fucking_ suit jacket.

You wasted no time in adhering to my obvious demands, and your mouth was sudden and hot and everything I did not expect against mine as the jacket fell to the floor. I was greedy, though, and I did not miss the amused huff you gave when I pulled away, fingers scrunching into your waistcoat, and muttered, ‘ _This’_.

I had so rarely seen you in only your white, button up shirt. Not to sound like a Victorian maiden, or anything.

The completely mystifying, wonderful thing was, was that you seemed to entirely ready to lose control for just a short time, as well. You kissed with fever, with experience, with the conviction of a man who knew precisely what he wanted.

It was how, with your hands on my waist and guiding me, that I found myself being dragged onto the sofa, my skin touch-starved and my lips desperate to be against yours. You were addictive in ways I never once anticipated, your mouth filthy and hot and open against mine, and who would have thought Mister Iceman would melt so easily?

‘ _Christ_ ,’ you hissed, the moment I planted both of my knees either side of your thighs and straddled you against stiff and unwelcoming piece of furniture.

I pulled away, warm and breathless. ‘Is this okay?’

‘ _Ridiculous_ question,’ you replied instead, and bit the edge of my jaw with a soft, wet-mouthed nip. It was like learning you in a way I had never thought I would; of seeing the man who folded napkins on his lap and kept a cool exterior, so suddenly becoming undone.

‘Well,’ I breathed, realising that my fingers were dug into the material of your skirt, and that your hands were planted firmly against my lower back. ‘I remember a certain someone being none-too-pleased the _last_ time we kissed-’

You held me tighter against you, and a flood of warmth pooled inside of me, and you murmured, nose nudging my face down to yours, ‘ _Do_ shut up, Miss Carter’.

I felt giddy, desperate, too many emotions all at once. I had spent months trying to keep them under control, so much so that I had forgotten how good it felt to let go; how good it felt so be _touched_. ‘ _Yes, Mister Holmes,’_ I sniped, never quite too far gone to be sarcastic, a licked inside your mouth.

You tasted of tea.

I had never quite thought about the odd relationship we shared, the admittance you had given me a week before, upon calling me out on my likeness to be _controlled_. I had not, in that time, thought about the fact that would be you also liked to be the _controller_.

In a haze of overwhelming, touch-starved longing, I made a mental note that you _really_ liked to be referred to as Mister Holmes in situations such as _that_. 

Your hands dropped lower, drawing firm against my behind, and all put yanked me against you. It was then that I felt you there, a hardness between my thighs as I breathed your name and you hitched a groan, overcome with a feeling I had not felt with someone else in years, that your phone began to _ring_.

There was a moment of apparent confusion and delirium.

You answered the ringing quickly, producing the phone from _nowhere_ , movements jerky, and it was when I pulled away from you that I could fully appreciate the colour high on your cheeks and your hair, thinning and so always styled, was rumpled in a way I never thought I would dare to see it.

I felt, suddenly, silly to my sitting on your _lap_.

You did not even speak. You simply listened and then hung up, dark gaze level with mine. I am not sure what you saw before you, but your fingers against my lower waist suddenly tightened. ‘I must,’ you bit out. ‘ _Leave’_.

I did not complain, something of which I am quite proud of, but I did whine just a little when, as I went to slide from your lap, you pulled me back with a sudden, searing kiss that had me moulding against you.

I clambered from your with little grace, my cheeks red, and you stood a moment later.

If tugging your clothes off was erotic, then watching you tighten your tie and do up the buttons of your waistcoat was downright _filthy_.

I stood aside, excitement filtering to nerves as I wondered what this had all meant. You looked up at me as you brushed your hand through your hair and, without pause, I blurted out, ‘Does this mean we’re _courting_?’

You blinked, though I spied a curve of your mouth. ‘You are _ridiculous’_.

I smiled. You breathed through your nose. I might have even said that you appeared _fond_. ‘Perhaps we should say we’re _dating_ ,’ I said, with an entirely straight face. ‘I mean, we _did_ just make out on your sofa like a couple of t-’

‘I beg of you to not end that sentence’. You eyed me when I grinned. You looked back to normal, and I was quite sure I looked a flushed mess. Suddenly self-conscious, I flattened by hair and tugged at my shirt, just as you handed me my coat from the sofa.

‘Thank you,’ I said, clearing my throat and tugging the green coat on. I felt sticky all over, my skin riddled with the ghost of your touch and the warmth of the encounter. I looked up at you, gaze flickering to the couch, and wondered for a split second if I really would have boned you there, of _all_ bloody places.

Perhaps you saw the same because you cleared your throat and turned from me quickly, jaw stiff and fingers flexing. It was hard to believe, I thought, that we had been kissing only moments ago. You cleared your throat, drawing my attention. ‘I hope you understand that you are far more in danger now than you have or will ever be-’

I held up my hand, rolled my eyes, and sighed. ‘I’ve heard this speech, Mycroft’.

You glowered as you turned. I cocked a brow. ‘Very well,’ you settled. ‘I will escort you to your car. I assume it is still waiting outside?’

I blinked, smile curling. ‘Yes, Mister Holmes’.

You stiffened, cast me a sharp eye, and ignored my snort of laughter. ‘Put your coat on, Ophelia’.

‘Yes, Mist-’

_‘Now’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLM. No justice, no peace.


	25. Chapter 25

I do not mention you to my mother or father.

I could lie about how I met you, about how our lives became entangled, but I was so selfishly relieved that the questions of Caleb’s demise had faded, that I did not want to begin lying again.

I instead painted my mother a present for Mother’s Day, a field of poppies, and called her to tell her a package would be arriving in a few days’ time that she would need to sign for. She insisted that I would need to come and visit soon, and that we needed to figure our plans for Christmas, which was only a few months away.

I could not help but think she sounded off on the phone. My mother, bless her heart, was awful at lying when it came to her feelings. Lying about mundane things, such as whether she had hoovered up my earphones – she was a _pro_. When it came to the simple questions of, ‘Are you okay?’ Her response, when a lie, would show through. I sometimes thought that she did it on purpose. 

Knowing that she would eventually tell me, I let the matter go, and a few hours later I found myself crammed inside a small, edgy little Bar in Central, with Sarah, Dom, and two of the other lads.

The Bar had some kind of theme Grecian theme, I was sure, with vines and cracked paintings and dark wood. Dom had dipped low to me, shouting over the thrumming music, and making me laugh in a way that reminded me of the normality I sometimes missed.

I tripped up the stairs to the crowded bathroom and wiped away the any smudges of mascara, whilst yanking my long hair over one shoulder. It was where Sarah found me, her pale skin dotted with freckles and her presence of tall, willowy prettiness stark in the noisy space.

She made a motion for a cigarette, and I nodded and followed her, but not before tipping my phone out of my nag and finding only notifications of website activity. I had heard from you only via text for the last two days since the incident in your office. Small changes, here and there, your signature at the end of texts, your question of my free evenings and, most profoundly, the message that I had received hours prior,

_I shall be attending a harrowing event this evening. I may well find myself departing early on. – MH._

I had replied with a simple,

_I may well do the same. – Ophelia._

‘Dom thinks your fit, you know,’ Sarah had said, blowing a stream of smoke from her mouth and into the cool air. She smoked roll ups, insisting they were ‘better’ for her. ‘You’re exactly his type. He loves a bird with some curves’.

At that, I had snorted and searched clumsily with my mouth for my straw. Sarah watched with a playful smile. ‘A bird with some curves,’ I repeated. ‘Nah. I did notice some _looks_ , but I’m kind of…well…relationship is a _funny word_ -’

Her eyebrows raise in surprise as she flicks the cigarette passed a group of friends gathered around a rickety table. ‘I didn’t know you had a _person’_.

I suddenly felt extremely hot and bothered, and very odd about saying anything. You had so long been a part of my life that was odd and weird and written like a true crime novel. Everyone in this bloody bar would know how _Sherlock Holmes_ was, and how ridiculous was it to think that I was _going out_ with the man that controlled the country we all resided in.

‘Er-’ I swallowed, took a swig of my gin and coke, only to grimace after finding that I had reached the bottom – _all gin._ ‘Kind of. Yes. I suppose he is a person-’ I laughed at Sarah’s scoff. ‘ _Boyfriend_ seems like an odd word for him’.

Her brow had cocked, and someone in the smoking area shrieked with laughter, whilst a chorus of men shouting rang out over the sound of a smashed glass. ‘Gotcha. He’s _older’_.

‘How the fuck do you know _that_?’ I laughed.

Sarah had tipped her drink by way, her expression knowing. ‘I dated an older lady once. She was in her fifties, I think. The idea of calling her my _girlfriend_ felt fuckin’ weird. She was too…’

‘ _Superior’_.

‘Yeah!’

I smiled, thinking of you and the word boyfriend. Thinking of you and your smarmy smile, your dark gaze, your tidy house, and your vast, uniform mind. Were you with me at that moment, you would have sneered and barked at any drunken person who came your way. Yet, you put up with me.

I said as much to Sarah, leaving any important details. ‘He is very-’

_‘Icy?’_

I balked, and laughed in disbelief at her quick smile, her blue eyes lighting up with mischief. ‘Yes!’ I adjusted the strap of my flimsy top. ‘Not at all the _type_ I thought I had. Funny man, really. He’s older than me by twenty years-’

My phone dinged then, suddenly, and I apologised quickly to Sarah as I scooped it from the glittery, aged bag I had found in Camden Market, and unlocked by phone. A message from you.

_Would you care for a drive around London? I am fifteen minutes from your current location. – Mycroft._

I paused and smiled a little down at the screen, my emotions fuzzy with gin. It was the first time you had signed your name, and not _MH_.

_Growth._

I suddenly felt overwhelmingly naked as I replied with a,

_I’ll be outside in fifteen. – Ophelia._

I had not planned to see you that night. My state of dress said as much. Caleb, I knew, would wallop me for not doing so often, but with working at Maid to Clean, to becoming a recluse, to being with you, I had grown out of dressing up like a twenty-five-year-old would.

And you were about to pick me up as I wore chunky strap, low cut crop top, sitting above a pair of new (thank you, _New Look_ sale) black jeans and scuffed boots. I had even dug out the old hoops earrings that I refused to throw away, due to fact that Caleb had bought them for me one birthday, insisting, ‘The bigger the hoop the bigger the ho. And you gonna be a ho, Phee’.

I am truly glad you never met the _me_ from University.

I filled Sarah in on my decision, and her smile had taken on a quick, frozen style, in which I had wondered whether she was annoyed I was leaving early. I asked as much, worried, to which she told me to shut up, that of course she wasn’t annoyed, and she was getting rather tired anyhow.

We tumbled out of the Bar after finding the boys, all of whom insisted on hitting a Kebab shop before going to the station. I waved them away, saying that I was being picked up by someone, and bid farewell to the others whilst Dom and Sarah hung nearby.

It was when Sarah turned to dip back into the Bar, stating she had lost her bank card, that Dom had tipped his head close to mine, breath smelling of beer, and said, ‘You’ve got fantastic tits, you know that?’

Thing is, there was a good-natured way about Dom. Honestly, in his head, I am quite sure he _really_ thought he was paying me a top-notch compliment.

I smiled and snorted. ‘ _Thanks_ , Dom’.

He grimaced and rubbed at his forehead, brown hair sticking in all directions. He really was a good looking guy. ‘Nah. Right. That was a fucking dumb arse thing to say, wasn’t it? Look, I mean, you are proper fit, Ophelia. And jokes. And you’re _sick_ at painting, and-’

Rather than finishing his sentence, Dom had ducked his head awkwardly toward me, and I am sure that if you had not of pulled up at that exact moment, he would have ended up planting a snog on my nose.

I bumbled uneasily away, seeing a flash of sleek black with blacked out windows. ‘ _Oh, God_ \- Sorry, Dom! Rides here! Wait for Sarah, will you?’ I was practically sprinting toward the side of the car I knew that you left vacant, grinning awkwardly at Dom’s flushed expression and quick nod. The last thing I saw before ducking into the car was his gawking expression at your fancy car.

The car smelt clean when I slammed the door shut, and I suddenly became very aware of my cigarette smelling clothes, the likely stench of gin, and my fading red lipstick.

You sat, very stiffly, next to me.

I had eyed you, flushed with embarrassment at what had just transpired and dubious of the way in which your gaze trailed past me, and instead through the blacked-out window, in which Dom had shuffled to stand beneath a lamppost.

You'd seen _that_ then. Brilliant. 

‘Dominic Fair,’ you hummed, pupils thinning as the car slid forward. I eyed you, a little bemused and giddy with gin. You had looked handsome, all tidy and made up in a particularly nice suit. ‘Thirty-one, asthmatic, and lives in Farringdon with two roommates. And, apparently, is quite _sure_ of himself-’

‘For _God’s_ sake,’ I had said, finally, and your gaze slid to mine as we pulled into traffic. ‘You are _jealous_!’ I scoffed, cocking a brow and being a little louder than usual. ‘Because he is drunk and tried to _snog_ me’.

You wrinkled your mouth. You were wearing a tuxedo, and I had forgotten just how much they suited you. I had only you seen you in one twice before, and briefly. ‘Preposterous’. There had been a long pause, in which you gazed at the black screen separating us from the driver. ‘You may tell him that if he were to try such a thing again, some extremely incriminating software may be uploaded onto his laptop’.

I choked on a laugh. ‘ _Mycroft_!’ And then, ‘…Is that something you can do?’ You side-eyed me, and I grinned. ‘In all fairness, he didn’t know I had a…that I wasn’t single’. A what? A boyfriend? _Yuck_. That certainly was not a name I could imagine you enjoying. You head tilted, and your jaw tightened.

Neither your expression nor your tone changed when you said, ‘I see’.

I shrugged away the silliness and fastened my seat-belt properly, ensured everything was _covered_ , and asked, ‘Did you have a nice evening?’

You spoke with your head turned toward me, your hands folded onto your lap, and your expression cool. ‘ _Nice_ is not a word I would use. A certain political figure became so drunk that they let slip the name of their mistress, rather than their wife’.

Drink made me stupid, so I replied, ‘Ha. Been there’. You peered at me, quite unimpressed, and I scoffed, before sobering. You often played the moody, no-jokes card, but there was a stiffness and a an off-ness about you that I could not quite blame on your personality.

‘And you?’ you inquired. ‘Was your evening… _fair_?’

I had to laugh at that and reached across to bat your arm. You huffed lightly through your nose. ‘A silly little boy who says he is _going for a slash_ when he goes to the loo tried to kiss me, after stating I had _fantastic tits_. Are you really annoyed at me about _that_?’

You eyed me as if I were stupid. It was almost nostalgic, to see the look once again. ‘What a repulsive statement. It is not _you_ I wish to jab with the wrong end of my umbrella. Such people should know better than to trifle with what is not-’

I blinked. It was rare that you had to cut yourself off at all. Perhaps, beneath the cool exterior, the interior was _seething_. In one last attempt to lighten the mood, I asked you, with a straight face, ‘Are you trying to say I don’t have _fantastic tits,_ Mycroft?’

You had _gaped._

Honest to God _gaped_ at me.

Like always, your righted yourself quickly with a straightening of your back, a rise of your chin, and a, ‘Though I agree on the matter wholeheartedly, I am not entirely fond of the jargon used’.

My stomach had flopped.

I had grappled with what to say for a moment, fingers digging into the leather seat beneath me, before I swallowed, unbuckled my seat-belt as your gaze turned suddenly to me, and stated, ‘I didn’t tell them I had a… _you_ , because I did not know if I was intruding on your privacy. I _would_ have told them. I did, actually, inform Sarah that I was not interested in Dom because I had someone else’.

I shuffled, and you turned down the corners of your mouth and stuck your nose into the air. ‘The car is moving, Ophelia, was on Earth are you doing?’

I grinned, hitched my skirt as I slid to sit in the middle seat, and replied, ‘Showing my highly intelligent and not at _all_ jealous _beau_ that he is the only one I want to have snogging me’.

So, I did. Body turned toward yours and thigh pressing into your own, I lay a hand on your cheek and tasted the bourbon you must have been drinking at the event, and smelt the cigarette smoke from your jacket. You responded in kind, and I wondered why we had not done this a thousand times since your office.

You reached to hold my shoulder, and then my arm, and then I, perhaps, kissed harder, gin and warmth making me want you close. It was only when I was kissing you, that I realised how desperately I had wanted to do so since the last time.

I pulled away, face warm and studying the wideness of your pupils and wetness of your mouth, and asked, ‘What were you going to say?’

And, of course, I did not need to remind you of what, because you’re _you_. ‘That people such as _Dominic Fair_ should know better than to trifle with what is not _theirs_ , Miss Carter’.

I all but flushed red, my stomach twisting and my skin prickling, and breathlessly dragged myself back you, harder and hotter and with far more vigour. You responded in kind, and I was thrown back to your office, where self-restraint was all but abolished, and your fingers pressed with need into my side.

We moved in sync. Perhaps it was the nudge of my legs to yours, or the way I desperately lifted myself from the seat to press my chest closer to yours, but you allowed me to clamber onto your lap, our noses nudged as my eyelashes fluttered.

I had never been so glad I was wearing a skirt, especially when you hitched it higher, cold, and smooth hands against the skin of my lower and thigh, and I breathed, nervous and near shaking with adrenaline, as your fingers eased over the space between bum and thigh.

I slid further forward, all but alleviating my kneeling position. My skirt bunched higher, and my legs parted further. I felt daring; different. Although I dipped in and out of understanding why you wanted me, those moments drenched in self-conscious thought, there was none of that as I pressed closer to you, alight with being _touched,_ and murmured, ‘I like the idea of being yours’.

I hadn’t really meant to say or. Or, rather, I had, but had not quite thought out what the words would mean to you once they left my head.

You pulled a fraction away from me, and I blushed, suddenly feeling heavy and stupid on top of you. ‘Good God,’ you breathed, fingers digging, and pupils blown wide. You shifted, jaw muscles jumping, and I remember thinking that I could not get tired of this version of you. How many had seen it before me, I wondered. This undone, flushed, and intense version of you.

And then you were _kissing_ me.

It was teeth and tongue and fingers digging into my sides, whilst my own frantically worked at the buttons of your vest. Well over a year of _nothing_ and then _that_ , and I could feel the damp in my underwear, the growing hardness of you and your groaned once, shortly, before murmuring, ‘You must _stop_ , Ophelia’.

I liked that idea. That this was me and not you; that you were so thrown by my closeness and my kisses and my warmth against you, that you felt you were the one being controlled in this situation. That to stop you from losing control entirely, I had to _stop_.

I complied and slid breathlessly into the seat beside you. You eyed me, took in my grin, and murmured, ‘You are insufferable,’ but I did not miss the fondness in your tone. I was about to reply, as my eyes scanned your rumpled suit and your tinged cheeks but was struck dumb by your next words. ‘And _beautiful’_.

You had said words akin to that before, but never with such…revere. You tasted the word, and I stared, and wondered how the man who collected fine and wonderful things could look at me as if I was _art_. Perhaps you enjoyed my dumbstruck look, though, because you wasted no time in cupping my jaw, body turned to mine, and kissing my mouth softly.

-

_MYCROFT_

She was perhaps the _simplest_ part of his entire existence.

The thought came unbidden into the forefront of his mind. He supposed it be because the woman in question sat by his side, legs curled on his couch and shoes discarded onto the carpet in front of her.

Ophelia still smelt faintly of harsh liquor and cigarettes, a smell that reminded Mycroft distantly of his own 20’s. He feigned no ignorance at the fact that mummy would likely cock a curious brow upon learning the age of the woman Mycroft had chosen, but he could not find it in himself to care. He had already endured the cruel and cracking jokes from Sherlock, and even Doctor Watson.

But that would be father into the future. No use mulling on it whilst she sat there, sleepily entrapped in the black and white that film Mycroft had chosen. He found her existence, despite its simplicity inside of his life, so utterly interesting. She accepted anything he threw at her with ease. Not an easy feat, he knew. Yet, Mycroft Holmes had long since abandoned reasoning why the once supposed goldfish, Ophelia Carter, had caught his attention, so. He had done what Sherlock had suggested, his brother so entirely smug, that Mycroft should simply _let it be_.

‘Stop staring,’ Ophelia murmurs, eyes shining in the television light as she turned toward him. He had not realised he had been, but he dipped his head and quirked a brow anyway. Perhaps it was soothing, that she accepts him in a way that even Sherlock could not.

He has met so few true empaths in his time, but Ophelia captures his emotions in a way that even MI5 spies could not.

‘My apologies,’ he mutters in reply, legs crossed and brandy dangling lazily from his hand. These days, it is all that helps him sleep. And he has every intention of sleeping. For some godforsaken reason, he wanted nothing more than to share a bed with the girl; to feel her warmth near his cold and not wonder, along with his frets of Sherlock, whether another mimic of Andrew Galloway would steal her away.

It was utterly ridiculous, he knows, but he had always been accused of being paranoid. Better to be prepared, Mycroft knows, than caught off guard.

She stretches, and he voices the question that had been perched on his tongue since inviting her to come to his, an hour earlier. ‘If you would like,’ Mycroft begins, knowing that her typical Saturday would consist of lazily painting and phoning her mother. ‘You could stay here, rather than go ho-’

She is yawning, wide and with her eyes scrunched shut, and Mycroft should find that rude; he should, but he does not. He finds it, if anything, _endearing_.

 _Christ_.

‘Okay,’ Ophelia replies, and she has a way of doing that, that Mycroft can just see past. The surprise is there, hidden behind sleepy eyes, but she hides it with the warmth of _her;_ the need to not make him feel uncomfortable. It astounds him.

 _She_ astounds him.

Then, Mycroft says, ‘You may retire now, Ophelia. You are obviously tired. You know which door leads to my bedroom?’

He had felt a swirl of trepidation upon voicing the words, worried that she would interpret them in another way. Were they in the early days of courtship, Mycroft might wonder if she would. Then again, Ophelia Carter read him in a way that even his brother struggled to, at times. It was a nice reprieve, Mycroft must admit, to not roll his eyes and explain himself to _idiots_.

She peers at him, dark eyes unblinking and tired, and full mouth pulled into a thoughtful frown. The red had faded someone from her lips, but colour stood beautifully against her pale skin, She was rather breath-taking like this, Mycroft decided. Ruffled with sleep, mascara slightly smudged, and shirt revealing the swell of her bust and the sprinkle of freckles. Her mouth split into a small smile, her expression turning into the familiar look of jest.

‘Mister Holmes,’ she murmurs sleepily. ‘You _dog_ -’

Mycroft holds up a hand. ‘I pray that you do not finish that sentence’.

He founds her humour enjoyable, at times. Not that he would ever, ever tell her such a thing. He recalls a time long ago, when he had seen his little housekeeper at a Gallery Opening far above her station, and how her laughter had all but _haunted_ him.

She grins. Mycroft sips his drink. He feels full at the sight of her. ‘I take it that there are some pyjamas mysteriously in my size somewhere upstairs?’ He nods, spiteful of the worry that she may grow uncomfortable at this fact. Instead, Ophelia only nods and smiles. She has always been accepting of his problem with boundaries. It's a relief. So many people found it disturbing, when in all actuality it was Mycroft merely being _practical_. 

When she patters upstairs, he thinks.

Not of that silly boy, who had tried to kiss her faded red mouth. No, he will not think of _Dominic_ again. He relished in the dumbfounded look upon the invalids face as Mycroft's Ophelia had ducked away from him, only to all but ravage Mycroft in the back of his car. Good Lord, he felt like a silly teenager, but how could he deny her, with her flushed cheeks and soft curves and clever mouth?

He thinks, in that moment, of what could go _wrong_.

He would need to check on his sister, he knew. She had been unusually stoic, according to his latest updates from Sherrinford. Eurus trapped even more so in her own mind was a dangerous, _dangerous_ thing.

As Mycroft sips his brandy, his thoughts move to another, closer danger.

_Magnussen._

He had seen the man that evening. _The Napoleon of Blackmail._ Mycroft had schooled himself into something akin to the blank canvases Ophelia had dotted around her flat; into a man without weaknesses.

A man, in other words, without Sherlock and Ophelia.

Sherlock was no secret, he knew, but Ophelia was someone he could try to keep to himself. Certain files on her had been deleted long ago, her own home was not, in actuality, in her name, but Aroura Ignis. A name Mycroft had fabricated, of course, as to allow her to be _safe_. He did not tell her such a thing. She already had such a tiresome complex about staying in a home he had paid for. He quite enjoyed it. 

He had allowed fragility into his life and, selfishly, he had not looked back.

For Charles Augustus Magnussen to get leverage on Mycroft Holmes would not do _at all,_ and Mycroft half worried that he may become so horribly _rageful_ and _sentimental_ like his brother, were something to happy to _his_ artist.

He would rather not test his own limits.

He is selfish. His mother would tell him as much in his childhood. He was an indulgent and selfish child. Now, in this moment, he cannot keep himself from her; from Ophelia. He wanders upstairs, glass of brandy left behind, and something stirs deep within him upon walking through his rarely ajar doorway and finding her curled under his bedding. The sight is a drug, and he wonders if he might become addicted. 

She had, without knowing, chosen the side of the bed he less frequented.

A flicker of a thought wavers through his mind. A warmth and a wish to see such a view far more often; to kiss up her soft neck and close Ophelia Carter behind the walls of his home, where no one could hurt her or leer at her or _touch her_. She could paint, he thinks, and laugh.

He is selfish.

_So very selfish._

He changes into his night clothes in his en-suite and lays next to her quietly, watching for a moment the fluttery of eyelashes and the stretch of her arms. She sleeps as a cat would, he thinks. Curled up and twitching in her dreams. She cannot be still, not even for a moment. 

He touches her cheek, lays to face her, and keeps his body a foot from hers. He is quietly uneasy about such intimacy. She reaches blindly for him, of course, mumbling that he is so _odd_ and so _stiff_ , and he finds himself being _selfish, selfish, selfish._

Sleep does not find him for hours. The feel of a body so close to his is too _new_ , especially without the implications of sex. He does not hold her as a lover but takes gentle steps into feeling the warmth she offers. He does not think of what the warmth means. He cannot fret over such things, nor does he want to.

Instead, Mycroft Holmes does what he does best. He gathers her in his arms in the early hours of the morning, smelling the new pyjamas and the smoky hair, and he _indulges_.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! So sorry for the long wait in updates. I'm coming toward the end of my Master's dissertation, so the past few weeks were quite busy! I promise I'm going to get around to replying to comments again. Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with this story!
> 
> I hope everyone is keeping well in these times. To my American readers, REGISTER TO VOTE!

True to your word, there we pyjamas tucked away in the spare room; the one that I had stayed in many times. I spied out the large window where I once painted in front of and ignored with a tight chest the very faded coffee stain to the left side of the bed. The room held an emptiness and an echo of memories that I hated to remember; of frantic thoughts and mind-numbing panic.

I changed sleepily, stumbling from sleep and drink as I put my legs through the pyjama short and, with some trepidation, pushed into the room I had never entered before.

Your room was, in some ways, sad, but in many ways, lovely. It was very much like the rest of your house, with dark walls and rich colours. The bed was large, likely a super king size, and there was but one picture on your bedside table. Two young boys, one pudgier and older than the other.

You and Sherlock.

It was sad, because I found that was the only item in there that I truly felt _belonged_ to you. The rest was fillers; objects that were picked because they would match the décor, I was sure. I thought of my own room, of the pictures and the paintings and the patterned bedspread that I had spent gruelling hours choosing. I wondered how much the clutter and colour of what I had done to your old flat bothered you. The thought made scoff.

I wandered forward, feet pressing into the deep carpet. It was then, as I walked further into your bedroom, that I saw a large painting hanging above your dressing table, opposite the bed. I peered, already knowing what it was from the corner of my eye. I felt a thrill at the fact.

It was my painting.

The blue and the reds colliding. I stared at it for a surreal moment. After my business had grown, I started to feel as if my talent was worth something. There had been years, of course, in which I felt this was not the case. The only people who bothered to showcase my paintings in their homes were friends and family. I remembered a particularly colourful painting that Caleb hung above the sofa in his living room. 

My chest hurt as I wondered what had happened to it. 

And now you hung a piece of my work in the most intimate room in your home. I wondered if you looked at it when you awoke first thing in the morning, and last thing at night. 

I took the side of the bed that mirrored the fire on the painting.

-

I fell asleep quickly, I realised, because I half-awoke to warmth pressed against me, and an expensive smell that could only be attached to you. In my haziness, I noted the early morning light filtering through the gaps in your curtains, and I hummed lowly and allowed you to wrap an arm around me and pull me closer to you.

In my sleep ridden state, I did not panic, or freeze, or blush scarlet and the rare show of affection. Instead, I pressed my forehead to your chest, and allowed you to be the man you could only be in the dark, with me.

-

When I awoke, you were gone.

I was not surprised. You had mentioned something about working early, and at this point it was safe to say that I no longer felt like a complete outsider within your home. I made the bed out of habit and peered around the bathroom as I peed, my eyes bleary with sleep. 

You were very…minimalist.

The aftershave you used was one I had never heard of, and sat on a slim counter, along with a comb and some bougie looking facial products. Was I snooping? Yes. Did I care? No. There were very few opportunities in which I could have some kind of payback for the amount of times you had breached privacy in our relationship. I brushed my teeth with a brand new blue electric toothbrush, one of which stood in stark contrast to the white, more worn looking one. 

I had given up questioning nor wondering how you were so prepared for everything. 

I wasted no time in poking my nose into your ornate wardrobe. There were, not shockingly, varying types and shades of suits, from three piece to tuxedo. I quite enjoyed the fact that you took care of yourself so well. I had heard, from my friends, stories of girlfriends who looked after their male partners as if they were children. Every gay relationship I knew of would stick their noses up at what, Caleb had once called it, such straight nonsense. 

I suppose that was why I felt so relaxed in your presence. I was being looked after, for once. 

I wondered if you knew I would do this; snoop. _Probably_. You knew that I was far more comfortable with you as time went on, I’m sure. My curious nature was something you seemed to allow free reign. I am sure that the step of opening your bedroom door to me was an admission on your part of how ready you were to _be_ with me. 

It was as I made to leave your bedroom and make myself some tea, that I saw them.

A small bundle of sticky notes, protruding only slightly from underneath the ornate lamp on your bedside table. Only the frayed corners appeared to me, and as I had tipped the lamp and pulled them out, I recognised my own handwriting.

_Thank you for the tea, sir. Coffee might better prepare me for a day of cleaning, though – Ophelia._

_Thank you, sir. I have gone home, and I am safe – Ophelia._

_I noticed that a few of the cleaning products you prefer are running out, sir – Ophelia._

And then there, near pristine at the bottom of the three sticky notes, was a small and white business card. In the right-hand corner, were decorative swirls and an awfully familiar address. I should know, I had dolled out nearly twenty quid to pay for the small cards, to advertise my paintings at the art show I had attended.

I slipped the items back where I had found them and rubbed the smile from my face.

Sentiment, Mister Holmes. How _human_ of you.

-

I received a message from Sarah in the mid-afternoon, just as I was finishing peeking through the rolls of film that you owned. I hardly remembered the one we had sat through the night before, my mind hazy with sleep and drink.

_Are you free?_

I blinked, a bit surprised, but supposed it must be something important. _Yeah, what’s up?_ I replied. I wondered if there was another night out planned, or perhaps a problem from the night before.

Her reply took a while, so I slipped onto the sofa that you and I had sat on the night before and looked around the room I had frequented less when I was your cleaner. It was your den, I decided. A place where you could _relax_. I wondered, for a moment, if you would mind me staying the day, but then reminded myself that you had purposefully left a note on the fridge, with a reminder that the fridge was full of ingredients for me to use.

I half wondered just how _sure_ you had been that I would come you the night before.

I was staring at the wall, going over dinner ideas that I couldn’t fuck up, when my phone dinged. Sarah’s reply, long in its length, knocked the breath out of me.

_I’m fine, before you worry! Last night, after you left, Dom waited for me like you said he would. He was acting rather weird when he walked me to the tube station. He made us take a really quiet route. Turns out, he was drunker than we thought. He tried it on, and it is safe to say that he did not like it when I said no. I called the police this morning, and he is being cautioned. I will not go into the semantics of it, but it is likely best if you stay away from him, Ophelia. He got quite violent._

The words, though I did not doubt them for a moment, did not make sense to me. Dom? Without a doubt, very keen, but _violent_? I could not imagine it, not with how nervous and embarrassed he had seemed on the other side of my rejection the night before, nor with how funny and kind he seemed every other time I had met him.

I replied quickly. _Sarah! You should have called me last night. Are you okay? I mean, dumb question. If you need me today, please give me a call or a message and I can come to your flat (wherever it is) in no time._ I pressed send, and sent another, shorter text soon after. _I feel awful for leaving. Please look after yourself today, and well done for calling the police. At least he will get a warning. What an absolute freak._

Her reply was near instantaneous. _I am fine, don’t worry about coming to me. Just a little bruising, but nothing dramatic. I thought that you should know, seeing as he seemed quite keen on you last night! Not that you would do anything, with your older gentleman waiting for you._

I sent a reply with kind words and reassurances, but mind spinning on just how much Dom must have had to drink to turn into such an animal.

-

The entire conversation with Sarah did not leave my mind, even as I cooked spaghetti from scratch later that day, and blared _I Think We’re Alone Now_ from my phone, socked feet tapping and spinning. I found that less and less the absurdity of being so domestic in your home… _bothered_ me. In that moment, I felt at home in your kitchen. The thought struck me, and I rubbed away a smile at the thought that this might become a habit between the two of is. 

Like many things between us, I would allow your sudden comfort and want for my company unsaid. You knew me enough to know that I would not have missed such a thing, but I was too worried to mention it, to break whatever… _whatever_ you were in.

I mulled over this as I burnt myself whilst draining the spaghetti over the sink. Being _me,_ I decided that rather than spending time washing your strainer, I would attempt to pour the hot water from the pot, whilst holding the spaghetti back with a wooden spoon.

As you would have been likely to tell, as you opened the front door, unbeknown to me, from my loud screech of, ‘ _fucking FUCK’,_ this did not end well.

I gasped, pot dropping loudly into the sink with a clatter, along with the pile of spaghetti, and boiling hot water sloshed heavily onto the bottom of the black shirt I wore, one that I had known was stashed in the spare room. My size, _oddly_ enough.

It was, of course, in that frantic moment of me yanking my shirt over my head and swearing repeatedly and loudly, that you stalked into the kitchen, brow furrowed, and face utterly _affronted_ at my apparent ruckus.

‘Ophelia, what on _Earth_ -’

We froze at the same time, for only a second each. Me standing in front of the sink, in only my plain, nightmarishly boring and old, bra, and the pyjama shorts that I had decided to keep on. You, in a near black three-piece suit, pocket watch and ring standing starkly against the ensemble. Of course such a thing would happen to me. Why would it not? 

‘Oh. Hello,’ I said.

You, in less than a millisecond, became animate again. Your blue eyes, perhaps a little dark, blinked to my face, and you gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘ _Cooking_ is now a danger to your life, I see’.

I was turning a funny shade of puce; I was sure of it. I started forward, arms crossed over my chest, and snapped, ‘ _You_ cook the pasta. The sauce is ready, I need to, uh, _change_ -’ I looked up as I went to round you in the archway, a scowl on my face in reply to the distantly amused one on yours. I felt breathless, for some reason, and I could not decide whether it was from pure mortification, or how it had felt, for the briefest of moments, to feel your gaze on my bare skin. 'Don't mock me,' I warned, eyes on the floor.

‘ _Hm’_. You hummed shortly and I looked up, ready to fire a snarky retort to your mocking amusement at my clumsiness, but there was a tilt to your expression. Before I could comment snarkily on _that,_ you hand found my forearm as I went to move past you in the archway to _sprint_ upstairs.

I froze. Your hand was cool against my blushing skin. I looked up at you, startled and pink and so very aware of the exposed skin of arms, stomach, and the curve of my chest beneath my crossed arms.

You looked somehow… _calculating,_ as if you did not quite know what to do. I felt hot all over, less than six inches from the cool and crisp smell of your suit. Next to you, where only your hands and face were shown, I felt practically naked.

The thought sent a heat swirling, and all thoughts on Sarah’s frightening text, and the stinging burn on my abdomen, were gone. I wondered if you saw it in my face, the sudden change inside of me. I did not doubt it for a second, of course. You saw everything. I put myself in your shoes for a moment and thought of how you might see my pupils dilating, my skin flushing, my mouth parting, and feel my heart rate picking up through the clutch you had on my left arm.

Without much thought, I uncrossed my arms and lowered them to my side.

In that moment, I had seen _your_ pupils dilating, your eyes darkening, your jaw clenching, and your Adam’s Apple bobbing.

You met my gaze, dark blue eyes jumping from the swell of my breasts to the glassiness of my gaze, and when I smirked, you huffed a breath. 

There was part of me that considered the way in which you pushed my against the frame of the entryway to be a little rough, but I think we were both beginning to understand that I did not mind at all. You hand stayed circled around my bicep, and I leaned into your just slightly, alight with seeing you like this, in the daylight and with complete clarity.

There was no mistake in the way that you shifted, head tilting and knee inching forward, and there was no mistake in my intake of breath and hard swallow.

You paused, as if waiting to see what I would say, if I would stop you, but I could already tell where this was going. I was the one half clothed, and you were looming over me like a bird of prey.

I murmured your name, my head dizzy with how close you were, how _hot_ I felt, and you kissed me as if you wanted to consume me. I had never felt so…so _ready_ from just a kiss. Were it not for the way in which you crowded me, keeping me in place, I would have dragged you upstairs and crawled into your lap.

But that wasn’t what you wanted. Not yet anyway.

No, you were quite content with where you had me, I was sure. 

Your hand slid down my arm, cool over my blood rushed skin, until it settled on my bare waist. I was more that aware of the curves and softness that my body gave off. There was no hiding the curving lines of my body, even in the saddest of bras. I wasted no time in pushing myself onto my tiptoes, my breasts pushing against the cool of your suit, and laughing lowly when you murmured, as if distracted, ‘… _Ophelia_ ', in something akin to a tone of warning. 

Your hand hovered, slipping slowly, and my stomach muscles contracted as your cool fingers tiptoed over the red, sore skin of my burn. Your name fell from my mouth in a way that it had not before, high, and breathy and so utterly debauched that, even in my lust drunk mind, I was embarrassed.

You hand dipped beneath the waistband of my shorts, and I flushed upon the realisation that I was not wearing underwear. Your breath stuttered, eyelashes fluttering, and you, Mycroft Holmes, kissed my hairline with the softness of a feather as you touched and discovered me.

Your fingers felt cool against my heat, but I decided I must like that, considering how dizzy I suddenly became. 

My back pressed into the entryway, the hard wood surely leaving bruises, but I could not bring myself to move even slightly just in case such a thing would force you to slip away from me. It took me but a few seconds to realise that my eyes were clenched shut, and when I opened them, it was to see you looking at me, eyes a dark blue, watching each reaction I had to the move of your hand.

My breath stuttered.

The kiss we shared then was near bruising.

Soon, I was breathless beneath you, fingers curling into your suit, a little startled to find myself so close within a short amount of time.

I could not remember the last time I had felt like this with someone. Years, surely, since I had anything close to sex with another person, but for you to bring me to a to the finish line the first time you touched me? You were, without a doubt, some sort of wizard, Mycroft Holmes. I was overwhelmed with how close I was, my breath coming in short gasps and my eyes screwed shut.

One of your shoes lightly moved my legs apart a little more, and I was seeing stars and feeling a billion degrees as you dove your fingers into my hair and pulled, just slightly, so that I was forced to look up at you, eyes fluttering open. I was entirely flummoxed at the way in which you looked at me, mouth parted and eyelashes fluttering with each move of you hand; each curl of your fingers. 

You touched me, fingers dipping and thumb swirling, and murmured, close to my hair, ‘ _Come for me now, my darling,_ ’ in a voice that was quietly dark and wrecked in a way that I had never heard before, and wanted to hear a thousand times again.

I may have sworn, I’m not entirely sure. I know that your hand travelled from my hair to my jaw, tilting my head up as I gasped in little breaths, my muscles clenching, and my high rolling. I was overwhelmed, my face so close to yours as you looked at every twitch and gasp that I gave off in my orgasm.

You held me there, against the door frame, as my feet flattened back from tiptoes and my eyes fluttered dazedly up at you. There was a softness to you, an intimacy in the way that you considered me. When you kissed me, it was soft and long as you slipped you hand out of my shorts and flattened the frizz of my hair. 

You ran your hand from my jaw to my collarbone, and said, ‘Go and change, and I will rectify your disastrous cooking’.

I stood straighter, snorted lightly, and smacked your arm as you stepped away from me. My eyes fluttered as I tried to right myself, still a little overwhelmed at what had just occurred. There I stood, half naked and frazzled, and you, other than the dark of your eyes, looked no different than you had when you walked through the kitchen doorway. 

I was about to open my mouth to say _something,_ but you, of course, left my speechless with your next action. For a moment, I watched in abject horror as you levelled your fingers with your face and _inhaled_.

For a split second, I considered that I might truly die of mortification.

You eyed me with a dark gaze, lowered your hand, and said, with that haughty expression, ‘Embarrassment is _ridiculous_ , Ophelia. I was merely testing my hypothesis that you would smell so delightful. I was correct’. I sputtered. You straightened your tie. You met my stare. ‘Next, _taste’_.

I was sure my eyes were as wide as dinner plates. I nearly collapsed then and there. ‘ _Mycroft_!’

You stepped back and stood straighter. ‘I assure you; I shall wash my hands before preparing the meal’.

I gaped at that, as you began to retreat back into the kitchen, as if nothing had occurred at all. ‘I don’t know whether to take offence at that’.


End file.
